A 

MARKET 
BUNDLE 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

PRE-WAR 

ARTHUR'S 
SIXPENNY  PIECES 
COTTAGE  PIE 

CLARA 

SIMPLE    SIMON 
MOBY    LANE 

POST-WAR 

KITCHENER  CHAPS 

A   KISS    FROM    FRANCE 

A   LONDON   LOT 


«RiAT 


A  MARKET  BUNDLE 


BY 

A.  NEIL   LYONS 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1922 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  A  BROWN  GIRL  SPOILS  THE  PICTURE           -  9 

II.  THE  TERRORIST          _____  ig 

III.  THE  GUINEA      ------  27 

IV.  A  BIG  RED  BLOT      -----  34 
V.  MRS.  PEARMINT'S  AUCTION  SALE         -        -  43 

VI.  POOR  OLD  AMBROSE           -        -        -        -  51 

VII.  BROWN  MILK     ------  59 

VIII.  REPRESENTING  THE  PLATOON      -        -        -  67 

IX.  PRIVATE  JUPP'S  MISSION    -        -        -        -  81 

X.  A  JOKE  FOR  A  HORSE        -        -        -        -  87 

XI.  STUCK  TO  THE  WIRE           -        -        -        -  94 

XII.  THE  FORTUNATE  BOOTS      -        -        -        -  102 

XIII.  THE  GERMAN  FROM  PERHAPS      -        -        -  109 

XIV.  ST.  WINEFRIDE'S  SHRINE   -        -        -         -  116 
XV.  A  WAGGONER'S  DREAM       -        -                  -  125 

XVI.  THE  MAN  IN  THE  GREY  HAT     -        -        -132 

XVII.  BROTHERHOOD            -        -        -        -        -  138 

XVIII.  AN  ABSENTEE  ------  146 

XIX.  LUCY'S  HOLIDAY        -        -        -        -        -  155 

XX.  PERSUASION       ______  163 

XXI.  ZENOBIA   _______  167 

XXII.  THE  FRIGHTS    ------  174 

XXIII.  PARAFARK          ______  179 

XXIV.  STRAWBERRIES  AND  CREAM         -        -        -  183 
XXV.  MR.  AP  ELWES           _____  191 

XXVI.  PRACTICAL  BREWING-        -        -        -        -  196 

XXVII.  THE  LAUGHING  SOLDIER    -        -        —        -  204 

XXVIII.  THREE-PUN-TEN         -        -        -        -        -  210 

XXIX.  JIM  JAM             ______  2i8 

XXX.  THE  POSKMAN-POSKMAN     -        -        -        -  225 

XXXI.  STOLEN  GRASS  ------  229 

XXXII.  His  MAJESTY'S  CURE          -        -        -        -  235 

XXXIII.  THE  TALE  OF  A  COMET      -        -        -        -  242 

XXXIV.  A  PAIR  OF  NUT-CRACKERS  -        -  250 
XXXV.  A  PICTURE         ------  257 

XXXVI.  CONY  PIT  CORNER     -----  261 

XXXVII.  TIBSEY      -------  266 

XXXVIII.  GRANFER  HAFFENDEN'S  SUNDAY                    -  273 

XXXIX.  THE  NAVAL  WIFE      -----  278 

XL.  JUST  GINGER     -        -        -        -                 -  285 

XLI.  HOUP  LA  !          ______  295 

XLII.  MR.  RUMMERY'S  CELEBRATION    -        -        -  303 

XLIII.  THE  PSETONIAN          _____  308 

XLIV.  THE  DEGENERATE     —        -        -        -        -  314 


2136712 


A  Brown  Girl  Spoils  the  Picture 


MY  name  is  Arthur  Clapshaw  Baffin,  and  it  is 
probably  familiar  to  the  reader.  I  am  the  author 
of  those  drawings,  in  line  and  wash,  which  appear 
so  often  in  the  pages  of  illustrated  weekly  journals. 
The  signature  "Baffin,"  or,  sometimes,  "Baff," 
at  the  foot  of  a  drawing,  is  a  guarantee  that 
you  are  sure  to  laugh  at  it ;  for  it  is  very,  very 
seldom  that  I  present  a  joke  which  is  not  immediately 
recognisable  as  such. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  my  artistic  career  has 
prospered,  although  I  am  still  under  forty  years  of 
age.  When,  last  year,  I  was  interviewed  by 
"  Carnages  Weekly,"  in  connection  with  a  "  Sym- 
posium," which  they  were  publishing,  under  the 
title  of  "  Why  I  have  got  on,"  I  attributed  my 
success  to  having  shown  a  strict  regard  for  tradition 
and  formula. 

If  I  draw  a  picture  of  a  comic  hypocrite,  everybody 
knows  that  I  have  drawn  a  picture  of  a  comic  hypo- 

9 


io  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

crite,  because  the  picture  which  I  draw  embodies  the 
universal  conception  of  what  a  comic  hypocrite  ought 
to  look  like. 

Thus,  a  hypocrite  is  confidently  expected  to  look 
religious  :  so  I  always  put  my  hypocrite  into  a  black 
coat.  I  aim  at  presenting  the  common  idea  of  a 
Nonconformist  clergyman,  and  I  dress  him  in 
"  Jemima  "  boots,  white  gloves,  very  short  sleeves, 
and  a  top  hat  with  a  sash  round  it.  The  gloves,  of 
course,  are  much  too  long  in  the  fingers,  and  are 
wrinkled  round  the  wrist.  I  have  never  seen  a 
Nonconformist  clergyman  who  wore  these  gloves,  or 
"  Jemina  "  boots,  or  an  undertaker's  hat,  or  who, 
indeed,  resembled  even  remotely  the  extraordinary 
figure  which  I  am  paid  to  depict.  But  people  love 
me  for  drawing  these  diagrams,  so  1  draw  them.  The 
populace  grasps  my  meaning  instantly,  exclaiming 
"  Good  old  Stiggins  !  "  and  performing  winks  and 
stomach  laughs. 

This  is  all  I  propose  to  say  about  my  "  Art."  I 
feel  I  have  done  well  in  mentioning  the  subject, 
however,  because,  although  I  am  a  novice  in  litera- 
ture, I  have  read  much,  and  I  know  that  the  principal 
duty  of  a  story-teller  is  to  tell  the  reader  about 
himself.  I  may  add,  I  ought  to  add,  one  other  fact 
to  the  biographical  notes  already  offered :  I  forgot 
to  state  that  my  humorous  hypocrite  is  now  a 
creature  of  the  past. 

Since  the  outbreak  of  that  dreadful  war,  which  has 
so  utterly  changed  our  conception  of  social  values, 
and  which  has  so  greatly  aided  the  development  of 
illustrated  journalism,  I  have  devoted  myself  to 


A  BROWN  GIRL  SPOILS  THE  PICTURE    n 

portraying  the  British  soldier.  These  efforts  at 
creating  a  standard  figure  of  the  returned  soldier 
have  been  highly  successful.  My  soldier  is  a  stub- 
born, leathery  individual — "hard-bitten"  is,  I 
think,  the  word — who  exhibits  a  great  contempt  for 
the  civil  population  and  for  the  amenities  of  a 
peaceful  existence.  You  will  perhaps  remember  my 
Major  Fitz-Shrapnel,  who  "  caught  on  "  wonderfully 
at  the  clubs.  I  showed  him  beguiling  the  tedium  of 
ten  days'  leave  from  France  by  reconstructing  his 
wife's  drawing-room.  He  had  thrown  all  the 
cushions  out  of  the  window  and  had  sawn  up  the 
sofa,  and  was  seen  reclining  on  a  wooden  bunk,  amid 
a  homely  confusion  of  petrol  cans  and  bully  tins  and 
telephone  receivers. 

Then  there  was  my  Cuthbert  Clare,  the  bank 
clerk.  The  idea  was  that  the  unnatural  calm  pre- 
vailing in  England  had  wrought  upon  his  nerves  and 
produced  insomnia.  I  showed  Cuthbert  sleeping 
soundly  on  a  marrow  bed  in  the  rain,  while  a  hired 
boy  in  his  garden  exploded  squibs  to  simulate  the 
congenial  stir  and  bustle  of  Flanders. 

The  object  of  these  pictures,  and  of  many  similar 
ones,  was  to  demonstrate  to  the  public  the  truth  of 
its  belief  that  war  has  utterly  destroyed  the  Young 
Man's  taste  for  peace.  The  lesson  which  I  wished  to 
inculcate,  or  which  I  felt  that  my  admirers  wished  me 
to  inculcate,  was  that  when  at  last  our  lads  return  to 
us  they  will  no  longer  be  contented  with  a  humdrum 
life  of  ease.  They  will  have  acquired  a  taste  for  the 
open  air,  for  rheumatism,  for  cold  tea  and  for  all  the 
hearty  pleasures  of  bodily  discomfort.  No  Banks 


12  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

and  Counting  Houses  for  them  !  No  feather  beds 
and  carpet  slippers  !  They  will  demand  a  fuller  life — 
the  right  to  a  shake-down  on  the  rockery,  with  a 
waterproof  sheet  for  covering  and  forked  lightning 
and  cloudbursts  for  companionship.  Or  the  ice- 
bound North,  Our  Lady  of  the  Snows,  and  all  that ! 

In  order  to  secure  the  repose  which  is  necessary  to 
the  rapid  creation  of  returned  soldiers,  I  live  under 
conditions  of  strict  isolation  in  aremote  country  lane. 
My  dwelling  is  a  three-roomed  cottage,  of  late  the 
habitation  of  chickens,  but  now,  by  restoration,  the 
abode  of  a  gentleman  and  an  example  of  the  pic- 
turesque in  architecture.  And  this  morning  I  took 
a  walk  in  my  lane. 

I  had  not  walked  far  along  my  lane,  when  my  eye 
was  attracted  to  a  stretch  of  green  sward  which  borders 
the  hedgerow.  Somebody  had  performed  an  un- 
authorised action  here,  having  erected  three  arches 
of  hazel  wood  and  draped  them  with  fragments  of 
blanket.  These  sticks  and  these  blankets  formed  a 
tent  at  which  I  stared  with  a  curious  satisfaction. 
It  was  such  a  sly  little,  sleek  little  tent. 

When  the  inevitable  authority  emerges  from  the 
womb  of  destiny  to  write  a  "  History  of  Tents  and 
Portable  Dwelling-Houses  throughout  the  Ages,"  I 
do  hope  that  he  will  not  forget  to  mention  the 
impromptu  blanket -house  of  Little  Egypt.  If  he 
writes  intelligently  about  these  battered  relics  of  the 
pilgrim  Adam,  I,  for  one,  will  promise  to  subscribe 
to  his  four  stout  volumes.  But,  if  we  are  to  have  a 
mere  compendium  of  striped  canvas,  alphabetically 
arranged—"  B  "  for  "  Bathing,"  "  R  "  "  Refresh- 


A  BROWN  GIRL  SPOILS  THE  PICTURE    13 

ment,"  and  "  V  "  Viceregal  " — then  I  am  afraid  that 
all  I  can  do  for  him  is  to  recommend  his  book  to 
clergymen  and  schoolmasters. 

Whilst  I  was  looking  at  this  small  brown  tent,  an 
incident  occurred.  A  patch  of  brown  fabric  was 
suddenly  withdrawn  from  the  front  of  the  tent,  and, 
through  the  narrow  opening  which  had  been  thus 
created,  there  extruded  itself  a  woolly,  flocculent 
object.  It  was  the  head  and  hair — the  sleep-tossed, 
tumbled  hair — of  a  young  girl. 

The  girl  crawled  out  from  beneath  her  dew-stained 
canopy  and  stood  upright  in  the  flickerless,  cold  glow 
of  that  October  morning.  She  was  dressed  not 
wisely  but  quite  well,  in  a  simple  combination  of  two 
garments — an  old,  flowered  petticoat,  terminating  far 
short  of  her  bare,  brown  ankles ;  and  a  scanty, 
whitish  bodice.  The  bodice  left  her  bosom  and 
arms  very  bare.  She  stood  before  me,  with  her  body 
arched,  her  arms  outstretched,  yawning,  with  a  cat- 
like care  arid  pleasure  in  the  sensuous  act.  Her  arms 
were  white  to  the  wrist,  her  bosom  was  white  to  the 
neck  ;  beyond  these  points  her  skin  was  richly 
tanned .  She  was  a  tall,  strong  girl,  with  a  deep  chin, 
a  wide  mouth,  a  broad  brow,  white  teeth,  short  top- 
lip,  large  eyes,  wide  lids,  long  lashes,  a  firm  neck, 
a  quick  brown  hand  and  freckles.  She  arched  her 
back  and  stretched  her  arms,  her  eyelids  all  but 
closed,  her  mouth  open,  her  strong,  white  teeth 
exposed,  her  nostrils  and  her  shoulders  and  the  blue 
veins  in  her  throat  all  dancing  to  some  tune  I  could 
not  hear. 

When  she  had  stretched  her  limbs  and  rubbed  her 


14  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

eyes,  the  young  girl  put  a  lazy  hand  up  to  her  hair, 
tugging  at  it  harshly  with  a  piece  of  comb.  It  set 
my  teeth  on  edge  to  watch  that  crude,  barbaric, 
ruthless  act  of  decency.  But  the  young  girl  closed 
her  eyes  and  bared  her  teeth,  and  tugged  and  tore 
away,  half  smiling,  as  if  she  were  rather  pleased  to  be 
enduring  pain. 

Having  bullied  her  hair  into  a  state  of  order,  the 
young  woman  threw  her  comb  into  the  tent  and 
sauntered  to  a  spot  some  few  yards  distant,  upon 
which  there  stood  (as  I  now  saw  for  the  first  time)  a 
two-wheeled  push-cart.  It  was  fitted  with  stumps 
to  maintain  the  deck  in  a  horizontal  poise.  Close  to 
the  cart,  an  iron  tripod  had  been  erected,  from  which 
there  depended  an  iron  hook.  Beneath  this  hook, 
a  fire  of  sticks  and  furze  and  touchwood  had  been 
constructed.  This  fire  burned  dimly. 

The  young  girl,  having  borrowed  an  ash-stake 
from  the  adjacent  hedge,  proceeded  to  poke  the  fire 
about.  She  then  poked  among  the  blankets  which 
were  strewn  about  the  deck  of  her  push-cart  and 
produced  a  two-ounce  packet  of  tea  ;  and  then  she 
looked  about  her  for  the  kettle,  and,  in  looking  about 
her,  found  me.  The  brown  girl  was  evidently  sur- 
prised to  find  me,  but  she  did  not  make  a  show 
of  her  surprise,  saying,  quite  lightly  : 

"  Why,  Sport :  good  morning  !  Up  before  yar 
bed's  made,  ain't  ya  ?  " 

I  pointed  out  to  the  lady  that  my  virtue  was  little 
in  excess  of  her  own,  to  which  she  responded  : 
"  Well,  yes  :  but  then  you  live  in  a  house  " — her 
implication  being  that,  as  a  householder,  I  was 


A  BROWN  GIRL  SPOILS  THE  PICTURE    15 

exempt  from  those  constabulary  influences  which 
govern  the  habits  of  "travellers."  The  brown  girl  then 
asked  me  if  I  had  seen  a  young  man  about  the  road. 

"  What  sort  of  young  man  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  One  as  looks  like  he's  been  a  soldier,"  was  her 
not  very  illuminating  reply. 

The  only  young  man  I  had  seen  had  the  look  and 
bearing  of  an  Insurance  Agent  and  therefore  did  not 
seem  to  conform  to  the  particulars  now  circulated 
by  the  young  lady.  I  therefore  told  her  that  I  had 
not  seen  her  young  man. 

"  Urgh  !  "  exclaimed  the  brown  girl,  in  a  tone  of 
bitterness,  speaking  half  to  herself — "  He's  gone 
creepin'  into  some  house,  shouldn't  wonder."  She 
had  found  her  kettle  and  now  she  dabbed  it  on  to  the 
fire,  resentfully. 

"  This  young  man  is  your  husband  !  "  I  ventured 
to  suppose. 

"  Not  likely,"  replied  the  girl. 

I  made  excuses  for  my  blunder.  "  You  somehow 
don't  look  as  if  you  were  travelling  alone,"  I  ex- 
plained. 

"  No  more  I  ain't,"  said  the  girl.  "  This  here 
young  feller  I  spoke  about,  he's  along  with  me.  But 
he  ain't  my  husband." 

"  No,  no,  of  course  not,"  I  murmured,  trying  to 
accept  her  statement  in  a  quiet  and  orderly  manner. 

"  You  see,"  continued  the  brown  girl,  "  I  looks 
arter  him,  like,  and  he  looks  arter  me,  like.  That's 
the  way  of  it.  'E's  a  nice,  'ot-tempered  chap  is 
'Arold — knock  anybody  down  as  soon  as  look  at 
them — and  'e  did  'ave  a  fancy  once  for  to  'ang  'is 


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'at  up  permanent,  and  I  'ad  a  fancy  for  to  let  'im. 
But  not  now.  Not  since  'e's  been  a  soldier.  The 
army's  spoilt  him." 

"  In  what  way  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  In  the  way  of  'is  fancies,"  replied  the  brown  girl. 
The  army's  made  a  gentleman  of  'im.  A  tent  ain't 
good  enough  for  'Arold  any  longer.  'E's  got  a  fancy 
now  to  live  in  a  house,  the  same  as  if  'e  wos  a  little 
garjer  like  yaself ." 

"  Garjer  ?  "    What's  that  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  A  person  as  ain't  like  us,"  replied  the  brown  girl. 
"  One  as  likes  indoors.  One  as  don't  get  about  much. 
A  fuggy  person.  You  see,"  she  continued,  "  they 
got  my  'Arold  into  the  'abit  of  bricks  and  mortar, 
time  'e  was  serving  the  King.  They  put  him  to 
sleep  in  barns  and  pigsties  and  cow-houses  and  such. 
They  filled  'is  'ead  with  swanky  notions  and  turned 
'im  against  the  ditch.  They  spoilt  'is  taste  for 
laying  rough.  A  green-wood  fire  brings  on  'is 
cough,  'e  says." 

All  this  surprised  me  :  this  story  of  a  soldier  who 
had  acquired  a  taste  for  indoor  life.  It  didn't  seem 
to  correspond  with  my  drawings.  But  it  is  the  cus- 
tom of  life  to  oppose  itself  to  Art ;  I  am  familiar 
with  that  phenomenon,  and  I  showed  no  emotion. 

The  brown  girl  continued  her  monologue  :  "  'E 
says  'e  got  enough  ditch  to  last  'im,  time  'e  lay  in  the 
trenches.  And  then  'e  stopped  one  with  'is  ankle 
and  they  sent  'im  into  'orspital.  That  just  about 
finished  'im  orf,  that  did,  sending  'im  into  the 
'orspital.  It  made  a  regular  old  gal  of  'im — 'im 
and  'is  diddy-brush  !  " 


A  BROWN  GIRL  SPOILS  THE  PICTURE    17 

"  What's  a  diddy-brush  ?  " 

"  You  may  well  ask,"  replied  the  brown  girl.  "  It's 
a  little  thing  with  a  bone  'andil,  what  he  carries  in 
his  pocket.  And  every  morning  'e  dips  it  into  water 
and  shoves  it  in  his  mouth  and  juggles  it  about. 
And  then  'e  swallows  water — water,  mind  you  ! — 
and  then  'e  spits  it  out  !  And  'e's  full  of  ever- 
lasting talk  about  this  hospital —  'ow  there  was  a 
wooden  floor  with  hoil-cloff  on  it,  and  calico  between 
'is  blankets  ;  and  how  they  made  'is  tea  for  'im  first 
thing  of  a  morning  and  brought  it  to  'is  bed.  And 
then  'e  talks  about  the  sisters — if  I  could  get  'old  of 

one  o'  them  upstarted  she's,  I'd Below!  There's 

'Arold  !     Good  morning,  sir." 

"  There  is  no  doubt,"  I  began,  "  that  Harold  will 
soon  settle  down  again  to  the  discomforts  of  civil 
life.  Perhaps ." 

"  Good  morning,  sir,"  repeated  the  brown  girl, 
significantly.  Then,  as  I  still  lingered,  she  added  a 
further  hint :  "  'Arold's  'ot -tempered,  sir,  and,  if  'e 
'its  you,  'e'll  'urt  you." 

I  went  away  from  her,  and,  returning  along  the 
lane,  encountered  Harold,  who  nodded  to  me,  curtly. 
He  was  a  swarthy  young  man  with  a  furtive  eye  ; 
but  he  was  dressed  in  dark  clothes  and  carried  him- 
self like  an  Insurance  Agent.  An  hour  later,  I  saw 
him  again. 

He  came  to  my  cottage  door,  escorting  the  brown 
girl  who  was  wheeling  the  push-cart.  He  wished 
to  buy  a  rabbit  skin  or,  alternatively,  to  sell  me  one. 
He  looked  about  him  with  a  covetous  eye.  "  You 
got  a  nice  little  place,  sir,"  he  said.  "  Wooden 
B 


i8  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

floors,  I  see,  and  a  well  o'  water."  He  took  his 
place  beside  the  brown  girl,  and  added,  with  a  sigh, 
"  Some  people  have  got  it  very  comfortable."  He 
nodded  to  me  and  trudged  away. 

The  brown  girl  took  up  the  handles  of  her  push- 
cart, and  followed  him,  looking  back  as  she  did  so, 
and  tapping  her  forehead  and  shaking  her  head. 


II 
A  Terrorist 


OLD  Dimidor  had  the  good  fortune,  as  you  might 
say,  to  die  before  last  August.  If  he  were  living  now, 
I  should  get  from  him  the  truth  about  Russia.  I 
should  get  it  all  this  afternoon,  all  over  tea,  after 
tea,  during  supper,  throughout  the  evening,  and  well 
into  the  morning.  When  old  Dimidor  talked  about 
Russia  he  talked  about  it  thoroughly. 

Through  the  exertions  of  old  Dimidor  I  became 
familiar  with  the  word  "  Soviet  "  many  years  ago. 
This  is  more  than  many  writers  can  say. 

We  met  in  a  remote  place  :  in  the  dusty  ante- 
room of  a  "  Reformed  Restaurant,"  where  people 
drank  coffee-substitutes  and  ate  beans  with  a  sort 
of  religious  fervour,  and  where  Capitalism  was  being 
constantly  overthrown  and  as  constantly  resus- 
citated— in  the  form  of  an  extra  ha'penny  on  your 
plate  of  vegetable  steak. 

"  You  ought  to  put  me  in  de  papers,"  said  Mr. 
Dimidor  Stiffkosfky.  "  I  am  a  singular  man.  I 
have  led  a  great  life." 


20  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

And  Dimidor  Stiffkosfky's  very  large  wife,  who, 
like  poverty  and  his  ear-trumpet,  was  always  with 
him,  corroborated  this  statement. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  you  must  put  Dimidor  into  de 
papers.  He  has  had  a  great  life." 

Mrs.  (or  Madame,  or  Frau,  or  Gospadorin)  Stiff- 
kosfky  nodded  sagely — a  confused  conglomeration 
of  chins. 

"  Once,"  said  Mr.  Dimidor  Stiff kosfky,  reminis- 
cently,  "  once,  when  1  was  in  Warsaw,  dey  cut  off  all 
my  gas.  Also,  dey  put  me  into  prison." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Madame  Stiff  kosfky,  "  dey  put 
him  into  prison.  Also,  dey  cut  off  all  our  gas." 

Madame  Stiffkosfky  spoke  these  words  in  a 
massive,  tragic  manner.  She  expanded  her  chest. 
She  expanded  her  chins.  She  gesticulated. 

Little  Dimidor — a  weazened  person,  in  black 
suiting,  with  cigarette-stained  fingers,  a  bald  head, 
and  a  sparsely  tufted  chin,  connected  himself  up  to 
the  ear-trumpet — an  ear-tmmpet  of  imposing  dimen- 
sions. He  said  : 

"  In  Russia,  many  years  ago,  at  the  time  when  I 
was  a  student,  they  would  have  sent  me  to  Siberia, 
but  I  retreated  from  the  country  on  board  a  ship." 

"  Yes,"  said  Madame  Stiffkosfky,  "  he  retreated 
on  a  ship." 

"  I  was  extremely  sick,"  said  Dimidor. 

"  My  God !  "  ejaculated  his  lady,  "  he  was 
unspeakably  sick." 

"  All  Revolutionists  feel  sick  at  times,"  I  sub- 
mitted. "And,  anyhow,  you  got  away.  It  was 
surely  worth  it." 


A  TERRORIST  21 

"  Got  away  !  "  repeated  Dimidor,  "  certainly  I  got 
away.  But  where  did  I  get  to  ?  I  got  to  Middles- 
borough.  Middlesborough.  My  God  !  " 

The  chins  formed  fours.  And,  in  an  unemotional 
and  almost  military  manner,  Madame  Stiftkosfky 
repeated  her  partner's  exclamation :  "  Middles- 
borough.  My  God  !  " 

"  And  you  could  write  a  whole  paperful,"  mused 
Dimidor,  "  about  the  trouble  I  experienced  in  getting 
to  Middlesborough.  I  had  to  go  through  Con- 
stantinople." 

"  And  in  Constantinople,"  remarked  the  voice 
beyond  the  chins,  "  they  took  away  his  trousers." 

"  That  is  true,"  cried  Dimidor.  "  They  deprived 
me  of  all  decency.  For  days  I  was  confined  to  a  wet 
cellar.  The  Secret  Police  of  Russia,  they  very 
nearly  recaptured  me.  I  was  also  much  followed  by 
the  Secret  Police  of  Germany,  of  Austria,  and  of 
Greece." 

"  Also,"  added  Madame  Stiff kosfky,  "  he  con- 
tracted dis  pain  in  de  ear.  Dis  pain  has  remained 
dere.  It  has  always  remained." 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Dimidor.  "  My  ear  !  My  poor 
ear  !  Oh,  my  dear  friend,  I  have  led  a  great  life. 
You  must  put  me  into  de  papers." 

"  I  will  communicate,"  I  said,  "  with  the  editor 
of  the  '  Aurist.'  " 

"  You  are  kind,"  exclaimed  Dimidor.  "  I  ought 
to  be  put  into  de  papers.  I  have  had  a  great  life. 
In  America — at  a  place  called  Cincinnati — I  was 
arrested  by  the  Sheriff.  They  fined  me  one  thousand 
dollars  for  raising  a  conspiracy  at  the  glue  works. 


22  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

But  still  I  did  not  despair.  I  had  still  a  little  money, 
and  I  returned  to  England — to  Middlesborough — 
where  my  books  and  some  of  my  best  clothes,  and 
my  wife's  best  clothes,  were  still  residing  with  a 
landlady  of  the  town.  I  returned  to  Middlesborough. 
The  Social  Revolution  must  still  go  forward  !  " 

"  Aha  !  "  cried  Madame  Stiff kosfky,  "  the  Social 
Revolution  must  always  go  forward.  That  is 
definitive." 

"At  Middlesborough,"  pursued  M. Stiffkosfky,  "I 
became  confused  in  the  minds  of  the  authorities 
with  certain  absurd  theoretical  people — Trades 
Unionists,  Direct  Actionists,  and  so  on.  I  was  much 
watched.  But  the  police  need  not  have  troubled 
themselves.  I  was  passive  in  Middlesborough.  I 
had  studied  Middlesborough. 

"It  seemed  to  me  that,  whatever  else  might  happen 
to  Middlesborough,  this  town  would  not  become 
celebrated  as  the  English  cradle  of  the  Social  Re- 
volution. I  therefore  made  no  effort — no  effort  at 
all — to  educate  this  city  in  the  theories  of  Communal 
Anarchy.  But  the  police  still  interfered  with  me  ; 
so  I  had  to  go  away  from  Middlesborough.  Ah,  my 
friend,  I  have  had  a  great  life  !  You  must  certainly 
put  me  into  de  papers." 

"  You  must  put  him  into  all  de  papers,"  stated 
Madame  Stiffkosfky,  in  a  dry,  judicial  voice. 

"  Having  still  a  little  money  left — but  not  much," 
continued  M.  Stiffkosfky,  "  I  then  came  to  London. 
Madame  Stiffkosfky,  my  faithful  companion  through 
all  these  troubles,  came  with  me.  We  had  made  up 
our  minds  that,  whatever  happened,  whoever  might 


A  TERRORIST  23 

suffer,  at  all  costs  the  Social  Revolution  must  still 
go  forward." 

"  Forward  !  Always  forward  !  "  quoth  the  authori- 
tative voice  of  Madame  Stiffkosfky,  amid  an  im- 
posing demonstration  of  chins. 

"  I  had  not  been  in  London  three  months," 
pursued  M.  Stiffkosfky,  "  when,  outside  the  Albert 
Hall,  where  a  demonstration  of  our  antipathy  to 
what  is  called  Justice  was  taking  place,  a  policeman 
assaulted  me  with  his  mallet,  entirely  destroying  my 
hat  and  two  bones  in  my  head.  '  This/  I  said  to 
myself,  '  becomes  exciting  !  '  Ah,  my  dear  comrade, 
I  have  led  a  great  life.  You  must  put  it  into  all  de 
papers." 

"  All !  "  intoned  the  chorus  of  chins.     "All!" 

"  Then,"  M.  Stiffkosfky  went  on,  "  my  money  was 
all  gone.  And  then  it  became  a  little  hard  for  us.  I 
was  forced  to  learn  the  unpleasant  process  of  sticking 
up  cigars.  Madame,  here,  trimmed  hats.  But  we 
did  not  give  in.  We  had  our  reward  in  the  progress 
of  Internationalism,  in  the  rapid  development  of  the 
idea  of  Brotherhood,  in  the  glorious  march  forward 
of  the  Social  Revolution.  That  was  all  which 
mattered  to  us." 

"  That  was  all  which  mattered,"  croaked  the 
chins. 

"  But  at  this  time,  I  am  sorry  to  say,"  continued 
my  celebrated  friend,  "  there  was  a  lot  of  untrue 
gossip  going  on  among  the  thinking  people  of  Aldgate, 
where  we  lived.  It  was  said  that  we  were  married — 
me  and  Madame  here.  Legally  married.  It  was 
very  painful  to  us,  this  gossip.  Because,  since  we 


24  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

were  little,  since  we  could  think  at  all,  we  have  not 
believed  in  marriage.  We  have  been  free  friends, 
always,  Madame  and  I. 

''  Free  friends — always  !"  testified  that  lady. 

"  So  then  I  would  have  gone  away  from  London. 
But  I  had  no  money  to  go  away.  What  a  life  this 
is! 

"Ah,  I  have  had  a  great  life.  You  must  put  it  in 
de  papers.  It  all  deserves  to  be  put  into  de  papers." 
M.  Stiffkosfky  paused  and  sighed. 

"  When  I  next  became  an  object  for  the  police  it 
was  more  serious.  They  were  on  horseback,  and 
they  were  very  large.  It  was  when  the  women  were 
defiant,  and  were  marching  in  a  body  up  to  Parlia- 
ment. I  do  not  understand  women ;  but  I  do 
understand  the  idea  of  marching  in  a  body  up  to 
Parliament.  The  large  policemen,  on  their  large 
horses,  rode  all  among  them,  very  roughly.  And  I 
was  marching  with  them,  and  my  passions  were 
excited.  So  I  pulled  a  large  policeman  on  his  leg, 
and  I  pulled  him  from  his  horse,  and  he  became  a 
spectacle  of  amusement,  and  the  mud  was  splashed 
into  his  face.  So  this  time  it  was  serious.  They 
put  me  into  prison  for  one  month." 

"  One  month  !  "  exclaimed  the  echo. 

"  And  that  was  very  hard,"  continued  Dimidor. 
"  There  was  no  work  at  all  when  I  came  out,  because 
they  had  determined  my  engagement  at  the  place 
where  cigars  are  licked.  Also,  Madame  here  had 
received  an  immediate  dismissal  from  the  shop  which 
paid  her  for  trimming  hats.  It  was  very  hard  for 
Madame.  During  many  days,  when  I  was  in  prison, 


A  TERRORIST  25 

she  had  no  food  to  eat.  I  should  not  have  blamed 
Madame  then  if  in  her  despair  she  had  become  a  little 
bit  unfaithful  to  me." 

"  Ah,  no,"  protested  Madame.  "  I  was  too  fat 
in  my  face." 

"  Therefore,  you  see,"  pursued  M.  Stiffkosfky, 
"  we  have  had  a  great  life  and  we  are  deserving  to  be 
put  into  de  papers,  for  an  example  to  young  people 
who  think  like  we  do.  And  all  the  young  people  will 
one  day  think  like  we  do." 

"  One  day  !  "  said  Madame  Stiffkosfky. 

"  But  there  is  one  thing,"  added  old  Dimidor, 
coming  closer  to  me  with  his  ear-trumpet.  "  There 
is  one  thing  which  you  must  not  put  into  the  papers. 
We  are  ashamed  about  it.  It  is  the  money  which  we 
now  have,  and  which  we  have  never  earned.  From 
the  will  of  my  uncle  at  Kieff  there  was  a  little  money 
came  to  me — a  few  thousand  roubles,  a  few  hundred 
pounds.  And  my  cousin  at  Kieff,  my  uncle's  son, 
he  wrote  me  a  letter  to  tell  me  let  the  money  stop  with 
him  for  a  little  while — for  a  year,  perhaps — because 
he  was  entering  into  a  partnership  over  some  oilfields, 
in  Baku,  and  there  would  be  a  great  return  from  this. 
And  so  we  were  tempted  to  make  more  of  our 
money.  Life  had  been  so  hard  to  us.  We  had  lived 
so  many  years  so  very  cheap.  And  all  for  the  Social 
Revolution." 

"  For  the  Social  Revolution  !  "  the  voice  behind 
the  chins  pealed  forth  in  muffled,  solemn  tones. 

"  And  so  we  wrote  to  our  cousin,  in  Kieff,  to  keep 
the  money  and  make  more  of  it.  And  this  he  did. 
We  now  are  very  rich.  We  have  three  thousand 


26  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

pounds.  But  we  do  not  live  extravagant,  and  I  swear 
to  you  that  much  of  what  we  have  is  spent  for  others. 
We  still  think  always  of  the  Social  Revolution." 

"  Always  !  "  said  the  lady. 

"  But  we  do  not  wish  that  you  should  put  this 
news  into  the  papers,  because  the  world  does  not 
always  behave  too  charitable.  We  are  ashamed 
of  this  money  which  we  did  not  earn." 

I  promised. 

But  M.  Stiffkosfky  is  now  dead.  And,  when  he 
died,  Madame  Stiffkosfky  and  her  chins,  his  free 
friends,  took  laudanum,  and  became  dead  also. 

So  I  feel  that  my  promise  no  longer  counts. 


Ill 
The  Guinea 


THE  Poet  and  the  Novelist,  having  met  in  a  tavern, 
The  Poet  became  inspired  to  drink  a  number  of 
bottles  of  bad  red  wine,  for  which  The  Novelist  paid. 
The  Poet,  a  spreading,  loosely  buttoned  man,  took 
a  long  time  to  cheer  up.  Many  minutes  went  by 
before  he  even  spoke,  during  which  he  rested  his 
great  stomach  against  the  edge  of  the  table,  drummed 
at  the  table-top  with  his  fat  fingers,  and  scowled  at 
The  Novelist  from  beneath  the  wide  brim  of  his 
greasy  black  hat.  Gradually,  however,  the  wine 
began  to  warm  his  throat,  and  then  The  Poet  began 
to  gurgle,  and  then  to  hum,  and  then  to  sing. 
Finally,  still  tapping,  The  Poet  began  to  rhyme. 
Thus : 

My  Soldier  came  to  me. 

And  soft  was  his  tread 

And  swiftly  did  pass  ; 

More  swiftly  he  sped 

Than  the  shade  of  a  swallow 

Speeds  over  the  grass. 
27 


28  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

Yet  soft  was  his  tread 

As  the  step  of  a  moth, 

Who  lighteth  him  down  on  the  shadowy  cloth 

Which  the  dandelions  spread. 

Now,  The  Novelist,  who  was  grotesquely  clad  in  a 
military  uniform  which  his  country  had  conferred 
upon  him,  was  touched  and  flattered  by  The  Poet's 
rhyme.  He  was  conceited  enough  to  imagine  that 
he  and  his  uniform  had  in  some  measure  provoked 
the  rhyme.  But  when  The  Poet  heard  this  he  left 
off  drumming,  pushed  back  his  hat,  drew  in  his 
stomach,  sat  up,  and  glared. 

"  Great  God  !  "  cried  The  Poet.     "  What  next  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  he  continued,  "  I  had  certainly  sunk  low 
when  I  rhymed  those  words,  but  I  had  at  least  not 
fallen  into  the  shame  of  rhyming  them  for  such  as 
you.  What  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  c-c-can't  think,"  stammered  The  Novelist, 
looking  down  at  his  uniform. 

"Well,  I  will  tell  you  what  you  are,"  rejoined  The 
Poet,  and  he  did  so,  causing  The  Novelist  to  blush. 

"  You  can't  deny  it,"  continued  The  Poet,  "  for  in 
my  boyhood  I  read  some  novels,  and  I  know  what  a 
novel  is.  It  is  the  expression  by  a  novelist  in  one 
hundred  thousand  words  of  that  which  a  ferret  can 
express  in  one  squeak.  Sir,  a  man  who  would  write 
a  novel  would  keep  a  bad-house.  I  rank  you, 
morally,  with  King  Ferdinand  of  Bulgaria,  and  if  I 
were  Prime  Minister  of  England  you  would  have  to 
register  at  Scotland  Yard." 

"  Then  have  some  more  wine,"  remarked  The 
Novelist. 


THE  GUINEA  29 

"  By  all  means,"  replied  The  Poet. 

The  second  bottle  was  brought,  and  The  Poet, 
having  filled  and  emptied  his  glass,  again  filled  that 
vessel,  and  then  poured  some  wine  into  The  Novelist's 
glass.  By  this  time  The  Poet  had  waxed  gay  and 
frank  and  talkative. 

"  If  you  must  know  the  truth  about  these  rhymes 
of  mine,"  he  said,  "  they  were  written  for  a  woman." 

The  Novelist  looked  expectant. 

"  They  were  written,"  continued  The  Poet,  "  for 
a  woman  of  some  public  reputation  and  importance. 
If  you  were  not  a  Novelist,  1  should  suppose  that 
you  had  heard  of  her.  Her  name  is  Whirley  Puttock." 

"  What  :   the  revue  lady  ?  " 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  demanded  The  Poet,  sitting 
back  and  frowning.  "  At  any  rate,  she  is  not  an 
Authoress. 

"  It  may  surprise  you  to  be  told,"  continued  The 
Poet,  "  belonging  as  you  do  to  a  profession  that 
specialises  in  ignorance,  that  Whirley  Puttock  is  not 
so  freshly  girlish  and  perfectly  single  as  she  is  sup- 
posed to  be.  When  I  first  saw  her — it  was  at  a 
private  view,  in  the  lounge  of  an  hotel — I  was 
surprised  to  find  that  she  is  a  wife  and  mother, 
nearing  forty,  and  that  her  name  in  civil  life  is 
Maggs.  Mrs.  Maggs  was  kind  enough  to  say  that 
she  had  heard  a  great  deal  about  my  poems,  and  she 
invited  me  to  recite  then  in  the  lounge  of  the  hotel, 
but  this  I  declined  to  do.  Whirley  also  said  that  she 
had  been  wishing  for  a  long  time  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  some  competent  poet,  as  she  wished 
to  buy  a  better  kind  of  song  than  her  man  in  Ber- 


30  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

mondsey  was  at  present  supplying.  She  suggested 
that  I  should  write  a  song  for  her." 

There  was  a  silence,  during  which  The  Novelist 
looked  shyly  at  The  Poet,  and  The  Poet  sat  back  and 
glared  at  The  Novelist. 

"  Well,  why  not  ?  "  exclaimed  The  Poet,  at  last. 
"  Even  Homer  had  to  live,  and  —these  paper  re- 
strictions are  playing  the  very  deuce.  I  put  it  to 
my  publisher  that  if  he  couldn't  afford  to  publish  my 
triolets  he  couldn't  afford  to  publish  anything,  and 
the  fellow  replied  with  an  argument  that  I  haven't 
yet  been  able  to  answer.  '  Oh,  Mr.  G.,'  he  said, 
'  you  forget  the  paper  that's  ate  up  by  your  margins.' 

"  Well,  sir,"  pursued  The  Poet,  "  the  long  and  the 
short  of  it  was  that  I  had  not  the  heart  to  refuse 
little  Whirley's  request.  I  consented  to  compose 
some  trifle  for  her. 

"  She  said  that  what  she  wanted  was  a  military 
song.  She  pointed  out  that  military  songs  are 
popular  at  all  times,  but  that  in  these  times  they  are 
regarded  as  indispensable.  The  revue  in  which  she 
was  at  present  appearing  had  only  two  military 
songs,  and  a  third  was  badly  needed.  Miss  Whirley 
Puttock  expressed  the  opinion  that  I  could  write  a 
very  good  military  song  indeed,  and  I  venture  to 
think  that  I  did  not  disappoint  her." 

Here  there  was  a  further  silence,  during  which  The 
Novelist  again  looked  timidly  up  at  The  Poet,  while 
that  gentleman  sat  back  and  glared,  until  at  last  he 
said:  "  Well,  sir  ?" 

"  So  that  was  the  song,"  said  The  Novelist  :  "  that 
composition  which  you  were  reciting  ?  " 


THE  GUINEA  31 

"  Yes,  sir  !  "  replied  The  Poet. 
"  Oh  !  "  said  The  Novelist,  "  oh  !     .     .     .  that!" 
"  And    why    not,     you    lascivious    monkey  ?  " 
shouted  The  Poet. 

"  Why  not,  indeed !  "  assented  The  Novelist, 
hastily  filling  his  companion's  glass. 

The  Poet  drained  his  glass,  and  then,  looking 
fixedly  at  The  Novelist,  again  recited  the  words  of 
his  music-hall  song  : 

My  Soldier  came  to  me, 
And  soft  was  his  tread 
And  swiftly  did  pass  ; 
More  swiftly  he  sped 
Than  the  shade  of  a  swallow 
Speeds  over  the  grass. 
Yet  soft  was  his  tread 
As  the  step  of  a  moth, 

Who  lighteth  him  down  on  the  shadowy  cloth 
Which  the  dandelions  spread. 
"  Whirley  Puttock,"   pursued  The  Poet,   "  was 
delighted  with  the  rhyme,  but — however,  I  anticipate. 
Whirley  said  at  the  end  of  our  talk  :   '  If  you  really 
mean  to  write  this  song,  Mr.  Glawms,  won't  you  come 
to  lunch  one  day  and  talk  about  it  ?  ' 

"  '  Madam,'  I  replied,  '  I  will  come  to  lunch  to- 
morrow.' 

"  My  promptitude,  it  seemed,  surprised  her.  She 
evidently  held  the  mistaken  opinion,  promulgated  by 
inky-fingered  pick-thoughts  like  yourself,  that  poets 
do  not  understand  business.  But  I  undeceived  her,  for 
I  arrived  at  her  house  at  one  o'clock  precisely  on  the 
following  day,  although  she  lives  at  a  great  distance 


32  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

from  London,  on  the  extreme  summit  of  Brixton 
Hill. 

"  It  was  a  large  house,  filled  with  handsome 
furniture  and  appointments.  Whirley's  monogram 
was  embroidered  on  every  chairback  and  every 
cushion,  and  it  was  engraved  on  every  cigarette-box. 
The  word  '  CIGARETTES  '  was  also  stamped  on 
these  ;  and  on  the  ebony  handle  of  the  bread-knife 
was  carved  the  word  '  BREAD.' 

"  The  lunch  did  ample  justice  to  its  environment. 
It  was  a  splendid  lunch.  An  unforgettable  lunch. 
There  was  the  usual  prelude  of  Barsac,  but  it  was 
mercifully  a  short  one.  Pommery  Greno  followed, 
and  then  some  more  Pommery  Greno.  This  was 
succeeded  by  some  old  Spanish  Brandy,  which  I 
am  bound  to  say  was  such  that  Calderon  himself 
would  not  have  disdained  to  drink.  A  perfect  lunch, 
sir." 

"  Was  there  anything  to  eat  ?  "  The  Novelist 
asked. 

"  I  forget,"  replied  The  Poet,  "  but  it  was  a 
wonderful  meal. 

"  On  its  termination,  Miss  Whirley  asked  me 
whether  I  had  thought  any  more  about  her  poems. 
'  Thought  ?  '  quoth  I.  '  Dear  lady,  I  have  written 
them.'  With  that  I  produced  the  verses  from  my 
pocket.  'My  soldier  came  to  me,  .  .  .'  and  so 
on.  I  needn't  repeat  them,  perhaps  ?  " 

"No,"  said  The  Novelist. 

"  Whirley,  as  I  have  told  you,"  continued  The 
Poet,  "  was  delighted  with  my  rhymes.  She 
remarked  that  they  were  very  neat.  She  then  drew 


THE  GUINEA  33 

my  attention  to  a  young  man  who  had  also  been 
sitting  at  the  table,  and  whom  I  had  already  all  but 
noticed.  He  was  Whirley's  husband,  and  he  had 
been  saying  '  Not  half,'  '  Right  ho/  and  '  Wow, 
wow/  at  intervals  during  the  repast.  Whirley  ex- 
plained that  this  relative  attended  to  all  matters  of 
business  on  her  behalf,  and  that  she  would  now  leave 
us  together — with  the  brandy — to  discuss  the 
delicate  matter  of  payment  for  my  poem." 

The  Poet  ceased  talking,  and  gazed  down  gloomily 
at  his  empty  glass,  and  The  Novelist  refilled  it  for 
him  from  a  freshly  opened  bottle.  The  Poet  sighed. 

"  Well,  what  did  he  say  ?  "  pressed  The  Novelist. 

"  What  did  who  say  ?  " 

"  Whirley's  husband.  Did  he  treat  you  hand- 
somely ?  " 

The  Poet  tossed  off  his  wine,  and  slammed  the 
empty  glass  down  on  the  table. 

"  He  offered  me  a  guinea,  sir,"  said  The  Poet. 

"  A  guinea  ?  " 

"  A  guinea." 

"  What  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  snatched  up  the  verses  from  the  table,  sir," 
said  The  Poet,  "  and  put  them  in  my  pocket,  and  I 
snatched  up  my  hat  from  a  chair  and  put  it  on  my 
head,  and  I  got  up  from  the  table,  upsetting  the 
brandy,  and  I  walked  to  the  door.  At  the  door  I 
turned,  and  gave  him  one  look.  And  then  I  spoke  to 
the  young  cheesemonger.  I  said  : 

"  '  Why,  damn  it,  I  can  borrow  a  guinea  ! '  " 


IV 

A  Big  Red  Blot 


THE  little  Derby  Dog  sat  in  a  draughty  corridor. 
He  sat  on  a  hard  wooden  bench,  at  an  unsteady 
wooden  table — trestle,  six  foot,  folding,  one — with 
military  registers  and  buff  slips  and  medical  history 
sheets  spread  all  around  him. 

This  little  Derby  Dog  was  the  least  heroic  of  his 
species,  being  that  pathetic  creation  of  our  "  win- 
the-war  "  spirit,  a  €3  clerk.  He  was  a  small,  fat, 
bald-headed,  nervous  man,  of  middle  age,  dressed  in 
the  uniform  of  the  famous  Umpshire  regiment,  with 
which  he  had  never  served,  and  weighted  down  by  a 
pair  of  enormous  hobnailed  marching  boots,  in  which 
he  had  never  marched. 

The  history  of  this  unimportant  Derby  Dog  was 
like  that  of  about  a  million  others.  When  the  under- 
sized and  sedentary  were  first  called  for,  had  gone 
hot -foot  to  the  attesting  station,  eager  to  demon- 
strate the  youth  and  ardour  of  his  soul.  He  had 
returned  from  the  attesting  station  with  a  buff 
armlet,  a  printed  certificate,  and  half  a  crown,  and 

34 


A  BIG  RED  BLOT  35 

he  had  sat  up  until  late  at  night,  with  a  proud  but 
unhappy  wife,  planning  a  future  of  military  distinc- 
tion. This  Derby  Dog  was  a  member  of  what  is 
called  the  "  professional  classes."  He  was  an 
architect,  or  author,  or  something  of  that  kind,  and 
foresaw  that,  being  more  or  less  educated  and  having 
a  decent  professional  reputation,  some  creditable 
employment  would  be  found  for  him  in  which  he 
could  use  his  talents  and  prove  his  courage.  His 
forecast,  however,  went  singularly  wrong. 

Within  a  few  weeks  of  his  attestation  he  was 
called  upon  to  endure  the  most  humiliating  and 
indecent  experience  of  his  life — that  of  a  so-called 
"  medical  examination."  As  a  result  of  the  in- 
spection which  he  then  underwent,  in  company  with 
some  two  hundred  other  naked  men,  he  found  him- 
self, to  his  contemptuous  surprise,  in  a  low  medical 
category.  There  then  followed  further  humiliations. 
He  was  given  a  half  promise  of  employment,  with 
commissioned  rank,  in  a  technical  unit.  Then  this 
promise  was  withdrawn.  He  was  half  promised  a 
further  medical  examination.  That  half  promise 
was  withdrawn.  He  was  told  that  he  was  eligible 
for  enlistment  in  a  Labour  Battalion,  and  that  having 
enlisted  he  could  then  get  his  re-examination  and 
look  for  higher  things.  He  made  a  number  of 
railway  journeys  and  filled  up  a  number  of  forms 
and  then  learnt  that  he  was  not  eligible  for  enlistment 
in  a  Labour  Battalion.  He  was  told  that  he  was 
not  eligible  for  enlistment  in  anything,  but  that  he 
might  at  any  moment  become  eligible  and  would  then 
receive  a  fortnight's  warning  to  present  himself  for 


36  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

service.  "  What  service  ?  "  he  asked.  He  was  told 
that  he  would  get  that  information  when — he  got  it  ! 

The  months  which  followed  were  months  of 
unhappiness  and  anxiety  for  the  Derby  Dog,  during 
which  he  was  neither  a  soldier,  an  architect,  nor  a 
man.  Old  ladies  despised  him  publicly  in  omnibuses; 
clients  withheld  work,  feeling  that  a  man  so  liable 
to  be  called  could  not  advantageously  be  chosen  ; 
and  the  army  bombarded  him  with  papers.  On 
receiving  his  papers,  he  would  kiss  his  wife,  lock  up 
his  cigars,  pay  off  the  gardener,  and  go  away — only 
to  return  by  the  6.30  \  His  papers,  he  would  find, 
had  been  posted  by  mistake.  He  was  told  that  he 
was  not  wanted  and  that  he  must  return  home. 
This  happened  about  four  times.  But  at  last  there 
came  a  time  when  no  one  could  conveniently  admit 
that  it  had  happened,  and  this  time  the  Derby  Dog 
did  not  come  home  again. 

This  time  he  was  sent  to  a  posting  depot,  where  he 
learnt  that  he  was  to  be  forthwith  mobilised  and 
despatched  by  train  to  a  country  town,  to  be  a 
military  clerk  in  a  military  office.  The  posting 
station  was  in  an  acute  state  of  February,  and  the 
little  Derby  Dog  became  extremely  cold  as  he 
hopped  about  a  parade  ground  inches  deep  in  snow, 
and  presented  himself  at  various  huts  where  boots 
and  overcoats,  and  knives  and  forks,  and  button- 
sticks  and  hold-alls  were  thrown  in  his  face.  He 
remembers  well  the  final  hut,  because  it  happened 
to  be  locked  ;  wherefore  he  had  to  wait  in  the  snow 
for  half  an  hour  until  an  unwilling  corporal  unlocked 
it  in  order  to  complete  the  "  issue  "  by  supplying 
him  with  a  ration  of  brown  paper  and  string. 


A  BIG  RED  BLOT  37 

A  private  soldier  accompanied  the  Derby  Dog  on 
his  journeys  from  hut  to  hut,  and  this  soldier  swore 
because  the  final  hut  was  locked.  So  the  Derby  Dog 
said  to  the  soldier  :  "  But  I  don't  want  any  brown 
paper  !  What  is  it  for  ?  " 

"  To  wrap  up  your  civvies  in,"  said  the  soldier. 

The  innocent  Derby  Dog  suggested  that  in  that 
case  it  would  be  unnecessary  to  wait  for  the  paper, 
as  he  had  brought  a  bag  for  his  civilian  clothes. 
But  the  soldier,  white  with  emotion,  flung  out  a 
detaining  hand.  "  You  can't  hop  off  like  that, 
cocky,"  he  exclaimed.  "  You  must  get  your  brown 
paper.  Why,  you've  signed  for  it  !  " 

So  the  Derby  Dog  waited  and  got  his  brown  paper, 
and  a  little  bronchitis  as  well,  and  late  that  night  he 
found  himself  wearing  strange  clothes  in  a  strange 
town.  There  he  lived  unhappily  ever  after. 

His  work  in  the  military  office  began  at  8  a.m. 
and  ended  at  8.30  p.m.,  Sundays  included,  and  he 
found  that  the  current  civilian  theory  concerning 
him,  and  concerning  all  soldier  clerks,  was  that  he 
was  a  coward  and  a  slacker.  His  wife  was  permitted 
to  live  with  him  in  the  county  town  to  solace  his 
hours  of  leisure,  and  to  feed  and  lodge  him.  The  sum 
allotted  by  His  Majesty's  Government  for  the  up- 
keep and  nourishment  of  both  husband  and  wife  was 
called  a  Joint  Subsistence  Allowance  and  amounted 
to  the  sum  of  twenty  shillings  and  fivepence  per  week. 
On  this  sum  the  Derby  Dog's  wife  was  supposed  to  be 
able  to  clothe  herself,  feed  herself,  and  house  herself, 
and  to  feed  and  house  a  hungry  soldier  in  addition. 

Now  come  back  again  to  the  point  from  which  we 


38  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

started.  This  soldier,  our  Derby  Dog,  was  sitting 
at  his  impossible  desk,  in  an  impossible  corridor, 
writing  impossible  letters.  The  desk  was  impossible 
because  it  was  an  army  desk — table,  trestle,  six  foot, 
folding,  one  :  the  corridor  was  impossible  because  it 
was  a  corridor,  and  the  letters  were  impossible 
because  they  were — impossible.  The  usual  sort  of 
thing  was  simple  :  "  Attached  is  passed  to  you  for 
information  and  necessary  action,  please."  But 
when  the  machine  became  excited  the  Derby  Dog 
would  find  himself  writing  such  wonderful  passages 
as  this : 

"  Ref.  your  number  Kio88  of  I3th  November  and 
attached  enquiry,  the  correspondence  is  returned  to 
you  for  completion  under  ACT  {28363  /i6,  as  in  view 
of  Para.  5  of  those  instructions  your  minute  No.  8  is 
not  understood  in  this  office,  please." 

The  little  Derby  Dog  indited  these  epileptic 
despatches  with  an  air  of  great  industry,  for  he  was 
fully  exposed  to  the  view  of  three  severe-looking 
officers — officers  of  the  regular  army — pukkha  officers. 
They  stood  at  the  far  end  of  the  corridor,  facing  the 
Derby  Dog,  and  they  were  smoking  Egyptian 
cigarettes  with  an  air  of  stern  displeasure  and  with 
that  expression  of  countenance,  habitual  with 
officers  of  the  regular  army,  which  would  suggest  to 
the  uninitiated  that  they  had  all  just  detected  a 
defective  drain.  These  officers  belonged  really  to 
the  room  behind  the  door  which  faced  the  Derby  Dog; 
but  they  came  out  into  the  corridor  when  they 
wanted  to  smoke,  and  as  they  always  wanted  to 
smoke  they  were  always  in  the  corridor,  looking 


A  BIG  RED  BLOT  39 

always  very  displeased,  well-groomed,  and  pukkha. 
They  were  elderly  men  whom  the  God  of  Battle  had 
called  from  the  golf  courses  of  Leamington  and  Clifton, 
or  resuscitated  from  the  twilight  sleep  of  Dawlish. 

Behind  the  Derby  Dog,  at  the  other  end  of  the 
corridor,  there  was  another  door,  but  this  door  was 
closed,  for  it  belonged  to  the  room  where  the  tem- 
porary officers  dwelt,  and  these  officers  did  not  ever 
come  out  of  their  room.  They  were  busy  men  who 
worked  extremely  hard  and  carefully  in  order  to 
sustain  the  professional  reputation  of  the  pukkha 
officers. 

The  little  Derby  Dog  had  an  affection  for  the 
temporary  officers.  They  were  Englishmen  like 
himself,  and  did  not  belong  to  an  international  caste, 
like  the  pukkhas.  They  went  about  their  work  with 
an  earnest  self -detachment,  and  went,  or  hobbled 
(since  most  of  them  added  a  permanent  disablement 
to  their  temporary  status)  about  their  pleasures  in  a 
simple  way,  avoiding  with  remarkable  cheerfulness 
those  places  where  the  regular  officers  congregated. 
They  seemed  to  be  quite  indifferent  to  defects  in  the 
social  drainage  system,  and  on  arriving  of  a  morning 
would  usually  nod  to  the  Derby  Dog  and  say  "  Good 
morning,  corporal." 

There  was  an  open  stairway  on  the  corporal's  left 
and  a  window  at  his  right  ;  so  that  this  warrior- 
scribe  did  not  lack  fresh  air.  Sometimes,  indeed, 
when  the  street  door  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  was 
open,  he  got  fresh  air  to  excess.  A  fierce,  but 
mercifully  short-lived,  blizzard  told  him  now  that 
the  door  had  been  opened.  He  looked  down  the 


40  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

stairway  and  saw  approaching  him  several  pieces  of  a 
man. 

The  pieces  of  man  were  ascending  the  stairway  very 
slowly.  They  had  a  lot  of  dead  weight  to  carry,  such 
as  a  wooden  leg,  a  steel  arm,  a  silver  scalp,  and  an 
artificial  jaw.  It  looked  like  some  mechanical 
contrivance  at  first  sight,  so  few  and  scattered  were 
the  pieces  of  original  being.  But  among  the  human 
fragments  which  remained  were  two  dark  and 
resolute  eyes,  which  proved  that  the  figure  now 
standing  at  the  Derby  Dog's  table  did  not  wholly 
consist  of  cabinet-work  and  ironmongery.  Indeed, 
it  spoke,  though  indistinctly,  and  thus  established 
further  proof  of  its  humanity.  The  artificial  jaw 
wagged  up  and  down,  and  flat,  staccato  noises  issued 
from  it,  which  sounded  like  a  magpie's  parody  of 
human  speech. 

The  bits  of  man  before  him  were  dressed  in  the 
uniform  of  a  commissioned  officer,  which  circum- 
stance added  to  the  difficulties  of  the  little  Derby 
Dog,  since  he  had  to  stand  to  attention  whilst  the 
officer's  platinum  face  kept  opening  and  shutting  like 
a  clockwork  toy.  At  last  the  little  Derby  Dog  was 
able  to  grasp  what  his  visitor  required.  He  had 
toiled  up  the  stairs  with  his  cabinet-work  and  iron- 
mongery to  ask  for  a  "  Privilege  Railway  Warrant  "  : 
a  voucher  which  is  issued  to  officers  enabling  them  to 
travel  by  train  at  reduced  fares.  The  little  Derby 
Dog  saluted  his  visitor  and  reseated  himself  at  the 
desk  in  order  to  make  out  the  warrant. 

While  he  was  ostensibly  engaged  on  this  task  the 
little  Derby  Dog  took  further  stock  of  his  visitor 


A  BIG  RED  BLOT  41 

The  Derby  Dog  observed  that  his  visitor  was  wearing 
a  blue  armlet,  in  public  evidence,  as  it  were,  of  the 
fact  that  he  was  not  altogether  fit.  The  visitor 
carried  a  book  in  his  hand,  and  the  Derby  Dog  saw 
that  it  was  a  volume  of  essays  by  Michael  Lord 
Montaigne.  He  looked  at  the  eyes  again  and  saw 
that  they  were  the  eyes  of  a  man  who  would  care 
to  read  books  :  indeed,  they  were  reading  now,  as 
they  searched  through  the  window  at  the  huddled 
red  roofs  of  the  county  town. 

The  Derby  Dog  had  now  filled  in  his  warrant  and  he 
carried  it  down  the  corridor  to  the  group  of  pukkha 
officers  and  presented  it  to  one  of  them  for  signature. 
This  officer,  having  asked  for  whom  the  privilege 
warrant  was  required,  and  having  had  his  attention 
directed  to  the  figure  at  the  table,  strolled  up  to  that 
figure  and  addressed  a  few  words  to  it.  The  other 
officers  followed  him,  and  a  splendid  effect  they  made 
in  their  smart,  well-fitting  uniforms,  shiny  buttons, 
and  rows  of  medal  ribbon. 

These  ribbons  were  the  fruits  of  warfare  in  distant 
and  romantic  places.  There  were  ribbons  from 
Egypt,  from  China,  from  Ashanti,  and  from  Burma. 

Their  owners  regarded  the  wreck  at  the  table  with 
expressions  of  kindly  tolerance.  They  questioned 
him  about  his  military  experiences,  and  elicited,  with 
difficulty,  the  information  that  he  had  had  the 
misfortune  to  be  knocked  out  during  operations  on 
the  River  Somme. 

Then  the  man  at  the  table,  stuffing  the  Privilege 
Warrant  carelessly  into  a  pocket,  and,  dragging  his 
load  of  wood  and  iron,  dragged  himself  away.  He 


42  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

clasped  the  baluster  of  the  stairway  with  his  com- 
petent left  arm,  having  previously  manipulated  the 
hooks  and  hinges  of  his  right  arm  in  such  a  manner 
that  they  would  hold  an  open  book  in  close  proximity 
to  his  platinum  face.  Then,  descending  slowly,  step 
by  step,  he  went  down  the  stairway,  reading  Mont- 
taigne. 

The  regular  officers  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  leant 
over  the  balustrade  and  watched  the  departure  of 
their  visitor  with  wonder  and  interest. 

"  Poor  devil !  "  said  one  of  them. 

"  Yaas,"  said  another  :  "  he's  had  the  devil's 
luck." 

A  third  officer  spoke.  "  Is  the  poor  devil,"  he 
asked,  "  a  pukkha  soldiah  ?  " 

Both  the  other  officers  shook  their  heads,  decidedly. 
The  little  Derby  Dog,  at  his  wobbly  table,  exe- 
cuted a  sudden  wriggle  and  dropped  a  big  red  blot  on 
A.B./icj2. 


V 

Mrs.  Pearmint's  Auction  Sale 


MRS.  PEARMINT  resides  in  a  very  secret  part  of  the 
county.  She  lives  in  the  heart  of  a  remote  and 
forgotten  wasteland  ;  a  piece  of  old  scrub  country, 
so  completely  retired  that  all  the  scrub  thereon  has 
grown  up  into  forest  trees — oak,  and  ash,  and  beech. 
Here  and  there  an  old  True  Service  has  spread  the 
bounty  of  its  mottled  fruits.  This  primitive  planta- 
tion covers  eight  square  miles  of  land,  and  Mrs. 
Pearmint  has  her  habitation  in  the  very  centre  of  it 
all,  and  can  only  be  approached  by  the  most  private 
glades  and  ways.  So  it  will  be  seen  that  the  old 
lady  lives  well  away  from  noise  and  agitation. 

Mrs.  Pearmint's  secluded  situation  gives  interest 
to  a  battered  old  signboard  which  is  nailed  to  the 
trunk  of  a  gigantic  beech  tree  at  her  cabin  gate. 
This  signboard  bears  the  inscription,  "  General 
Shop."  If  any  town-bred  traveller  ever  found 
himself  in  the  vicinity  of  Mrs.  Pearmint's  cottage  he 
might  reasonably  wonder  to  see  such  a  sign  in  such  a 
place.  But  town-bred  people  never  visit  Mrs. 

43 


44  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

Pearmint's  little  forest,  its  existence  being  as  yet 
unknown  to  the  world  at  large.  Only  Mrs.  Pearmint 
and  her  few  neighbours,  and  a  baker  and  a  tax 
collector  and  myself  know  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  business  which  Mrs.  Pearmint  has  ever  been 
known  to  transact  in  conformity  with  her  sign  is  to 
sell  a  few  crab-apples  in  the  autumn  season  or  to  give 
a  few  figs  to  the  baker,  an  old  and  sprawling  fig  tree 
being  the  principal  feature  of  her  garden.  The 
existence  of  Mrs.  Pearmint's  signboard  is  understood 
to  date  from  the  time,  now  very  remote,  when  Mr. 
Pearmint  was  alive  and  active,  and  attended  a  sale 
of  pigs  in  the  town  of  Petborough,  and  found  the 
board  in  a  lumber  yard  and  bought  it  for  tuppence. 
Mrs.  Pearmint's  husband,  being  then  alive  and 
active,  carried  the  board  to  his  cottage  in  Grimm's 
Fairy  Tales,  and  affixed  it  to  the  beech  tree. 

The  idea  was,  as  Mrs.  Pearmint  has  often  explained 
to  me,  to  accustom  the  baker,  the  tax  collector,  and 
myself,  slowly  and  gradually,  to  the  knowledge  that 
a  general  shop  was  coming.  When  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Pearmint  grew  old  enough  to  desist  from  actual 
work,  and  to  have  saved  an  appropriate  amount  of 
capital,  the  shop  would  actually  come.  I  under- 
stand that  it  was  to  have  consisted  of  penny  tins  of 
mustard,  penny  bottles  of  vinegar,  penny  packets  of 
salt,  "  Bull's  Eye  pellets,"  crab-apples,  and  onions. 
A  good  shop,  but  alas  !  it  came  not.  For,  before  Mrs. 
Pearmint's  husband  could  grow  old  and  rich  enough 
to  contest  the  supremacy  of  Harrod's  Stores,  he  was 
stricken  with  disease,  a  disease  of  the  rheumatic 
order  which  stiffened  all  his  joints,  so  that  he  could 


MRS.  PEARMINT'S  AUCTION  SALE      45 

neither  move  nor  turn,  and  old  Mrs.  Pearmint  had  to 
wheel  him  along  the  ways  and  glades  in  a  home- 
contrived  perambulator,  or  bath-chair. 

What  with  this  employment  and  the  necessity  now 
imposed  upon  her  of  gathering  crab-apples  and  figs 
for  two,  Mrs.  Pearmint  was  too  busy  to  open  the 
shop,  and  when  the  death  of  Mr.  Pearmint  merci- 
fully took  place  she  was  somehow  too  sad.  But  she 
left  the  signboard — as  an  expression,  perhaps,  of  all 
that  which  other  widows  try  to  utter  in  granite. 

Now,  when  September  arrived,  breathing  a  promise, 
since  bluntly  falsified,  of  amber  sunshine,  the  subject 
of  ripe  green  figs  was  naturally  suggested  to  my  mind. 
The  idea  presented  itself  to  me  of  paying  a  casual 
visit  to  Mrs.  Pearmint  and  her  fig  tree  and  making  a 
noise  like  half  a  crown.  But  when  I  got  to  Mrs. 
Pearmint's  cottage  there  were  no  figs  to  be  fished  for. 
The  first  crop  had  gone,  and  a  second  growth  was  not 
yet  ripe.  And  Mrs.  Pearmint  was  very  busy.  I 
found  her  digging  with  a  spade  at  the  foot  of  her 
elm  tree  burying  the  signboard.  All  the  explana- 
tion that  my  expressions  of  surprise  brought  forth 
from  Mrs.  Pearmint  was  the  brief  remark  that  she 
was  preparing  for  her  auction. 

"  What  auction  ?  "  I  demanded. 

Mrs.  Pearmint  should  have  thought  I  must  have 
heard  then.  Everybody  know'd  about  it.  Mrs. 
Pearmint  was  evidently  a  little  hurt  to  find  that  I 
was  not  among  the  knowing  ones.  She  was  leaving 
the  cottage  then,  so  there .  And  the  fig  tree  was  going 
to  be  uprooted,  for  her  poor  husband  had  set  such 
store  by  it  he  could  never  abear  to  lay  in  his  grave 


46  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

and  think  of  strangers  mauling  it.  The  only 
explanation  offered  by  Mrs.  Pearmint  of  this  sudden 
decision  to  leave  her  old  home  was  that  she  had 
arranged  to  live  with  her  sister  in  a  cottage  on  the 
high  road,  close  to  Firkin's  Smithy,  and  then 
they  would  be  two  old  widders  together,  and  a  good 
job,  too,  for  everybody.  As  to  the  auction  sale, 
it  would  take  place  on  the  day  before  Michaelmas, 
and  very  busy  she  would  have  to  be  to  get  ready  in 
time. 

I  hope  that  I  succeeded  in  concealing  the  wonder 
with  which  this  item  of  information  inspired  me. 
It  was  difficult  to  understand,  in  view  of  the 
extreme  scantiness  and  simplicity  of  Mrs.  Pearmint 's 
worldly  possessions,  why  the  preparation  of  the  sale 
should  occupy  much  of  her  time,  and  why  any  sane 
auctioneer  should  allow  the  act  of  selling  them  to 
occupy  any  of  his  time.  Thus  cogitating,  I  said 
good-bye  to  Mrs.  Pearmint,  after  promising  firmly 
to  attend  her  sale  at  Michaelmas. 

In  the  days  which  followed,  Mrs.  Pearmint's 
auction  sale  was  the  subject  of  much  amusing  local 
comment.  Interspersed  with  all  these  neighbourly 
jeers,  however,  was  a  strain  of  serious  speculation 
regarding  the  value  of  an  old  oak  corner-cupboard 
which  she  was  known  to  possess.  This  was  estimated 
by  the  gossips  to  be  hunderds  and  hunderds  of  years 
old,  and  it  was  correspondingly  estimated  at  hun- 
derds and  hunderds  of  pounds  in  value. 

Now  it  happens  that  some  near  friends  of  mine 
whom  I  will  call  "  The  Freddies  "  are  about  to 
consummate  the  folly  of  their  mutual  attachment  by 


MRS.  PEARMINT'S  AUCTION  SALE      47 

getting  married.  It  naturally  occurred  to  me  that 
my  own  contribution  to  their  joint  resources  might 
as  well  be  represented  by  an  old  oak  cupboard  hun- 
dreds of  years  old  as  by  a  pearl  necklace  hundreds  of 
yards  long.  Indeed,  I  had  actually  contemplated 
something  of  this  very  kind,  and  had  actually  been 
to  look  at  one  in  Petborough.  The  one  I  looked  at 
was  a  highly  carved  cupboard,  with  an  oily  black 
surface  that  had  green  lights  in  it.  It  was  fitted 
with  obvious  Birmingham  handles  and  had  the  fresh 
sap  running  out  of  every  joint.  The  worthy  trades- 
man of  Petborough  who  had  this  article  for  sale 
assured  me  positively  that  it  was  what  he  called  a 
genuine  Aunt  Teak  and  had  only  that  morning 
reached  his  shop  from  an  old  Sussex  farm-house  which 
it  had  inhabited  for  years.  It  was  no  doubt,  as  the 
tradesman  represented,  dirt  cheap  at  eight  pounds, 
but,  as  dirt  is  no  use  to  me,  even  at  a  gift,  I  left  his 
cupboard  with  him  and  went  to  look  at  Mrs.  Pear- 
mint's. 

On  again  approaching  Mrs.  Pearmint's  cottage  I 
met  that  lady  with  her  home-contrived  perambulator. 
The  vehicle  was  filled  to  overflowing  with  her  house- 
hold possessions,  which  appeared  to  consist  ex- 
clusively of  coloured  almanacs  for  the  year  1906, 
and  many  small  pieces  of  decayed  oilcloth.  She  was 
wheeling  these  treasures  about  the  ways  and  glades, 
and  she  explained  that  this  was  being  done  in 
preparation  for  the  auction  sale.  How  the  woman 
could  consider  herself  to  be  preparing  for  a  sale  by 
taking  her  possessions  away  from  the  house  in  which 
the  sale  was  to  be  held  was  one  of  those  small 


48  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

mysteries  which  now  seemed  to  attend  all  the 
proceedings  of  Mrs.  Pearmint. 

She  left  her  perambulator  in  a  glade  and  returned 
with  me  to  the  cottage  to  show  me  the  corner- 
cupboard  which,  she  explained,  might  or  might  not  be 
for  sale  on  the  day  of  auction,  she  having  not  yet 
decided  whether  to  sell  it  "  with  the  rest  "  or  to 
take  it  with  her  for  company  when  she  joined  her 
sister  at  Firkin's  Smithy.  It  was  a  dirty  old  corner- 
cupboard  anyhow,  and  greatly  rotted,  and  I  was 
unable  to  force  myself  to  believe  that  "  The  Freddies" 
would  thank  me  for  it.  However,  by  not  actually 
opposing  Mrs.  Pearmint 's  view  of  its  extraordinary 
charm  and  value,  I  contrived  to  sustain  it,  and  at  a 
convenient  moment  transferred  my  attention  to  the 
other  objects  in  Mrs.  Pearmint's  sitting-room. 
These  consisted  of  four  more  pieces  of  tarnished 
oilcloth  and  two  Windsor  chairs.  The  room  was 
otherwise  empty. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Pearmint  mysteriously, 
"  I've  been  having  a  clear-out,  like,  to  get  ready  for 
my  auction  sale.  I've  a-took  the  table  and  the  easy 
chair  to  my  sister's,  an'  the  old  clock,  too.  I 
couldn't  sell  he." 

Mrs.  Pearmint  remarked  later  that  the  second  lot 
of  figs  were  going  on  nicely,  and  she  invited  me  to 
return  in  a  few  days'  time  and  taste  the  last  of  the 
fruit  that  would  be  gathered  from  the  old  tree. 

The  following  advertisement,  which  appeared 
next  morning  in  the  "  West  Sussex  Gazette,"  placed 
beyond  doubt  the  authenticity  of  Mrs.  Pearmint's 
sale  : 


MRS.  PEARMINT'S  AUCTION  SALE       49 

BUGLOSS   COTTAGE.    GRIMM'S   WASTE,    PETBOROUGH 

GREEN,    SUSSEX. 

(about  4$  miles  from  Petborough  Town) 

TlfESSRS.  PERKINS,  PERKINS,  PERKINS  SON  & 
-u-*-  PERKINS  are  favoured  with  instructions  from  Mrs. 
Emily  Pearmint  (giving  up  housekeeping)  to  Sell  by  Auction 
on  the  Premises,  on  Saturday,  September  21st,  1918,  valuable 
HOUSEHOLD  FURNITURE  AND  EFFECTS,  comprising 
capital  feather  bed,  inlaid  rosewood  twin  French  bedsteads, 
excellent  mahogany  cellarette  sideboard,  pair  antique  Sussex 
iron  brand-dogs  with  pot-hooks,  magnificent  black  oak  carved 
corner-cupboard,  2  eight-day  and  1  thirty-hour  brass  grandfather 
clocks  in  mahogany  cases,  fine  old  8-ft.  cherry  wood  dresser, 
and  several  useful  pieces  of  good  quality  oilcloth,  together  with 
numerous  household  effects. 

I  read  this  announcement  with  profound  emotion 
and  was  glad  to  recognise  the  oilcloth.  The  other 
items,  I  supposed,  would  explain  themselves  on  the 
day  of  sale. 

In  point  of  fact  they  explained  themselves  sooner 
than  that,  namely,  this  morning,  when  I  again 
visited  Mrs.  Pearmint's  cottage  to  say  good-bye  to 
the  fig  tree,  and  again  met  Mrs.  Pearmint  in  a 
glade  or  way,  attended  by  her  trusty  home-contrived 
perambulator.  Mrs.  Pearmint  explained  that  she 
would  have  to  detain  me  for  a  minute  or  two,  as  she 
had  promised  to  wait  at  the  spot  until  twelve  o'clock 
in  order  to  receive  a  wagon  which  was  bringing  some 
things  for  her  sale.  As  she  spoke  the  wagon  ap- 
peared. 

It  was  a  large  wagon  drawn  by  two  horses,  and 
brightly  painted  with  the  name  of  my  worthy 
Petborough  tradesman.  It  carried  the  twin  bed- 
steads, the  mahogany  sideboard  with  cellarette,  the 
shining  brass  clocks,  the  fine  old  fire-dogs,  and  the 
cherry  wood  dresser.  Above  all  else,  crowning  the 

D 


50  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

load,  it  carried  a  piece  of  furniture  which  I  had  seen 
before,  namely,  the  magnificent  carved  oak  corner- 
cupboard.  Its  oily  black  surface  showed  green 
lights,  and  fresh  sap  was  dripping  from  every  joint. 
Some  wealthy  amateurs  of  the  collecting  world 
will  soon  be  travelling  all  the  way  from  London  and 
New  York  into  this  remote  and  secret  little  Sussex 
forest,  hitherto  known  only  to  me,  the  tax  collector, 
Mrs.  Pearmint,  and  the  baker's  man.  Here  they  will 
find  some  obvious  Aunt  Teaks. 


VI 

"  Poor  Old  Ambrose 


THE  news  that  Ambrose  had  left  home  was  received 
with  calm  in  thejyiUager—  I  suppose  that  the  historic 
events  of  the  last  four  years  have  accustomed  us  to 
the  idea  of  people  leaving  home.  Their  return  is  a 
more  surprising  thing,  but  even  those  incidents  do 
not  give  rise  to  much  local  excitement.  William, 
in  the  act  of  taking  his  calves  to  market,  encounters 
George  (whom  he  has  not  seen  since  August,  1914) 
in  the  act  of  carting  faggots,  and  all  that  William  has 
to  say  about  it  is  : 

"  'Marnin',   George.     Back  again,  then  ?  " 

"  R  !  "  replies  George,  employing  the  shortest 
monosyllable  in  the  language,  as  he  goes  on  carting 
faggots. 

As  for  the  Georges  who  have  not  come  back  at  all, 
and  never  will  .  .  .  well,  they  have  gone,  and  we 
forget  them.  So  what  did  Ambrose  matter — one 
more  or  less  ? 

But  there  were  circumstances  connected  with 
Ambrose  Button  which  to  my  mind  made  his 

51 


53  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

conduct  "  unlikely."  One  of  these  circumstances 
was  a  goitre,  and  the  second  was  a  rheumatic 
affliction  which  had  twisted  his  neck  and  caused  him 
to  walk  sideways.  A  third  circumstance  consisted  in 
the  habit  of  industry  which  Ambrose  had  developed 
to  a  high  degree.  For  five  years  now  he  has  been 
"  working  "  my  lane,  early  and  late,  rain  or  shine, 
in  the  interests  of  Mr.  Tagg,  the  timber  merchant. 

Ambrose's  vocation  is,  or  was,  that  of  a  "  haulier." 
I  know  little  of  the  technique  of  this  calling,  except 
that  it  seems  naturally  to  imply  a  goitre  and  a 
crooked  neck  and  a  habit  of  persistence  and  work 
as  usual  on  Bank  Holidays.  Before  it  was  light  in 
the  winter  time  you  could  hear  Ambrose  and  his 
wagon  and  his  twisted  bones  come  creaking  down 
the  hill ;  and  just  so  soon  as  it  was  light  in  summer 
you  could  see  them.  Thereafter,  throughout  the 
day,  and  well  into  dark,  they  could  be  seen  and  heard 
again  at  half -hourly  intervals  ;  creaking  empty  down 
the  hill  or  blowing,  fully  laden,  up  the  hill,  on  top  of 
which  the  wood  is  dumped. 

Variations  of  season  and  temperature  made  little 
difference  to  Ambrose's  twist  and  limp,  but  they 
exercised  a  great  effect  upon  the  goitre.  Ambrose 
was  a  pale-complexioned  little  man,  having  a  small 
white  knob  in  place  of  a  nose,  no  eyebrows,  eyes  like 
boot-buttons,  an  open  mouth,  ragged  teeth,  and  a 
few  irregular  wisps  of  mouse-coloured  beard.  In 
summer  time  this  physiognomy  presented  a  contrast 
in  colouring  with  the  goitre,  which  was  of  the 
brightest  carmine  hue,  and  was  at  that  season  of  the 
year  worn  exposed — for  coolness.  In  the  winter, 


"  POOR  OLD  AMBROSE  "  53 

however,  Ambrose  would  put  its  stocking  on,  and 
then  it  could  only  be  recognised  by  its  shape. 

It  will  be  seen  that  Ambrose  was  a  hard-working 
man.  He  worked  so  hard,  in  fact,  and  went  so  lame, 
that  I  often  thought  how  lucky  it  was  for  his  master 
that  he  was  not  a  horse.  Yet,  though  hard  work 
be  ennobling,  it  is  not  always  beautifying,  and  I 
cannot  disguise  from  the  reader  that  Ambrose 
Button  was  no  Prince  Charming.  But  even  the 
crooked  bits  burn,  as  we  say  in  these  parts  of  cord- 
wood  and  cripples  ;  and  Ambrose  had  flared  up  once. 
He  was  now  a  marnetLman. 

She  who  wasTiis  helpmeet  and  incubator  had  a 
cleft  palate  and  other  physical  detractions,  but  she 
gurgled  about  the  village  contentedly  enough,  and 
was  no  doubt  able  to  meet  the  requirements  of  the 
husband,  who  was  never  at  home,  and  the  babies  who 
infested  it.  During  the  eight  years  of  her  alliance 
with  Ambrose,  Mrs.  Button  had  admitted  eight 
babies  into  this  world,  and  another  one  was  knocking 
at  the  door. 

They  all  lived  in  close  proximity  to  the  wood 
dump,  in  a  habitation  which  had  been  kindly  placed 
at  their  disposal  by  Mr.  Tagg,  the  wood  merchant. 
It  was  a  modest  domicile,  composed  of  a  tram-car,  a 
bird-house,  and  some  galvanised  iron.  Here  Mrs. 
Button  stewed  and  stewed  her  cabbage,  and  her  old 
mother  had  and  had  her  hiccups,  and  the  eight 
babies  crawled  and  quarrelled  and  screamed,  and  the 
wood  pile  creaked  and  ripened.  This  home  Ambrose 
had  now  left. 

The  matter  might  not  have  been  brought  to  my 
notice  at  all — why  should  it  ? — except  for  the  fact 


54  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

that  I  was  expecting  Ambrose  to  bring  me  some 
wood  which  he  did  not  bring.  "  What  has  become 
of  Ambrose  this  morning  ?  "  I  said  to  somebody  ; 
and  old  Mrs.  Pett,  who  totters  about  my  house  with 
a  duster,  overheard  the  question. 

"  Why,  haren't  you  heard,  then,  sir  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Pett. 

"  Heard  what  ?  " 

"  About  old  Ambrose.     He've  runned  away." 

Mrs.  Pett  made  this  announcement  without 
gesture  or  emphasis  of  any  kind.  It  was  an  event 
which  evidently  interested  her  little.  She  pottered 
here  and  pottered  there  in  her  usual  placid  manner, 
removing  particles  of  dust  from  pieces  of  furniture 
with  her  duster,  with  which  she  then  reapplied  the 
dust  to  other  pieces  of  furniture.  The  news  had 
impressed  me  a  little  bit,  however,  and  I  gave  it  my 
consideration.  Then,  thinking  of  the  goitre  and  the 
timber  carting,  and  all,  I  said  : 

"  Well,  it's  about  time." 

Mrs.  Pett  assented,  yawning  slightly,  and  went  on 
dirtying  the  furniture. 

Then  Mr.  Tunks  was  announced,  together  with 
the  boy  who  holds  his  spanner.  Mr.  Tunks  had  come 
to  apply  a  new  washer  to  the  kitchen  pump.  He 
therefore  found  it  necessary  to  dissemble  that 
instrument  completely  and  take  it  all  away  with  him. 
Before  doing  so,  however,  he  was  regaled  with  the 
usual  cocoa  by  Mrs.  Pett,  and  they  were  heard  to 
discuss  the  usual  topics.  Ambrose  formed  one  of 
these.  Mr.  Tunks  was  heard  to  remark  that  in  his 
opinion  Ambrose  had  enlisted  and  had  gone  to  be  a 


"  POOR  OLD  AMBROSE  "  55 

Young  Guard  in  Cologne.  This  suggestion  created 
merriment,  Ambrose's  goitre  and  his  twist  and  his 
lirnp  having  been  noticed  in  the  village. 

"  But  joking  apart,  Alf,"  said  Mrs.  Pett,  having 
dried  her  eyes  :  "No  one  can't  blame  old  Ambrose. 
They  can't  reely.  Who  could  put  up  with  that  wife 
o'  his'n,  the  way  she  goo  on  having  babies  ?  " 

Mr.  Tunks  assented  heartily.  "  No  stoppin'  'er  at 
all,"  he  said. 

Soon  after  my  pump  had  been  carried  away,  Mr. 
Rummery  was  announced.  This  old  gentleman,  in 
view  of  the  approach  of  the  gardening  season,  had 
come  to  proclaim  the  fact  of  his  continued  existence 
and  that  of  his  ability  to  mow  and  hoe.  We  walked 
round  the  garden  together  and  looked  at  some 
potatoes  in  a  shed.  These  had  the  effect  of  putting 
Mr.  Rummery  in  mind  of  Ambrose. 

The  deserted  incubator,  it  appeared,  had  called  on 
Mr.  Rummery  that  morning,  and  had  asked  for  a  few 
pounds  of  potatoes  on  the  credit  system.  She  had 
explained  that  she  and  the  children  were  hungry. 
But  Mr.  Rummery  had  given  her  no  potatoes.  For 
them  as  couldn't  manage,  he  told  her,  couldn't  beg, 
and  besides,  he  told  her,  the  time  to  think  about 
cooking  potatoes  was  the  time  when  there  had  been 
a  man  at  home  to  eat  'em.  Perhaps,  he  told  her,  if 
Ambrose  had  been  offered  more  potatoes  they  might 
have  given  him  the  heart  to  stop  at  home. 

These  were  wise  maxims,  but  they  did  not  seem 
calculated  to  appease  the  hunger  of  Mrs.  Button  and 
her  chickens. 

It  seemed  to  be  a  case  for  direct  action,  and  I  looked 


56  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

up  Mrs.  Button.  She  was  giving  nourishment  to  her 
last-born,  and  stewing  cabbage,  and  her  mother  was 
having  hiccups,  and  her  children  were  having  hooping 
cough.  Seeing  which,  I  called  on  the  vicar,  who  was 
having  tea.  He  displayed  no  great  interest  in  Mrs. 
Button's  trouble,  and  was,  indeed,  yawning  before  I 
had  quite  finished  explaining  it.  He  said,  however, 
that  he  would  enquire  into  the  case,  though,  on  the 
face  of  it,  it  struck  him  as  being  one  of  those  cases 
into  which  it  were  wiser  not  to  enquire. 

For  some  time  after  this  I  heard  no  more  about 
Ambrose.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  his  in- 
cubator and  its  produce  were  supplied  with  potatoes 
in  sufficient  quantity,  but  beyond  that  there  was 
little  done  and  nothing  said.  Ambrose  had  gone 
and  there  was  an  end  of  him,  and  nobody  either 
thought  or  spoke  about  him. 

And  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  poor  old  Ambrose 
turned  up  again. 

Some  boys  found  him.  They  were  playing  near 
the  pond  in  Coldharbour  Lane,  and  throwing  bits 
of  stick  at  a  sort  of  football-thing  that  was  floating 
there.  One  of  the  boys  got  hold  of  a  staff  and 
managed  to  drag  the  football  to  the  bank,  and  it 
turned  out  to  be — what  do  you  think  ?  It  turned 
out  to  be  the  head  of  poor  old  Ambrose,  to  which  the 
body  and  limbs  and  goitre  of  poor  old  Ambrose  were 
still  attached. 

Mr.  Tunks  brought  me  the  news  in  calling  to 
explain,  with  a  very  flushed  face  and  a  very  thick 
voice,  why  he  could  not  finish  the  pump.  He 
described  the  surprising  manner  in  which  poor  old 


"  POOR  OLD  AMBROSE  "  57 

Ambrose  had  turned  up  again,  speculated  as  to  the 
probable  result  of  a  coroner's  inquest,  and  remarked 
how  fortunate  we  were  in  having  the  cold  weather 
still  with  us.  He  then  went  on  to  describe  the 
effect  which  Ambrose's  return  was  exercising  on  my 
pump. 

"  The  job's  there,  I'll  own,"  said  Mr.  Tunks, 
"  and  lays  in  my  workshop.  But  there  it  will  have 
to  lay  till  we've  dug  old  Ambrose  in.  It's  no  manner 
o'  use  for  me  to  deceive  you,  sir,  for  I  can't  work  and 
I  woon't  work,  not  while  poor  old  Ambrose  is  in  me 
mind.  Oi  sims  to  want  to  sit  and  grieve  about  him, 
I  doos,  and  I  can't  eat  naarthun',  though  I  drinks  a 
tidy  bit,  for  me  throat  be  that  parched.  Poor  old 
Ambrose  !  And  that  poor  wife  o'  his'n — left  there 
alone  and  unprovided  for,  with  eight  little  children. 
Poor  woman  !  I  sent  her  a  rabbut  this  mornin'." 
Mr.  Tunks  turned  away  to  hide  his  feelings,  and  the 
interview  terminated. 

A  few  minutes  later  a  little  girl,  sobbing  bitterly, 
came  with  a  note  from  Mrs.  Pett.  Mrs.  Pett  ex- 
pressed her  sorrow  at  being  unable  to  come  to  work 
that  morning.  She  added  an  expression  of  her  fear 
that  she  would  be  equally  unable  to  come,  for  many 
successive  mornings,  since  she  was  occupied,  day  and 
night,  in  sitting  with  the  widow  of  poor  old  Ambrose. 
She  asked  to  be  paid  a  few  shillings  that  were  owing 
to  her  in  order  to  provide  crepe  for  the  widow's 
children. 

This  little  girl  was  followed  by  a  bigger  one,  Miss 
Smee,  the  parish  organist.  Miss  Smee  brought  a 
subscription  list  in  aid  of  the  widow  and  orphans  of 


58  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

poor  old  Ambrose.  This  list  was  headed  by  the 
signature  of  the  vicar. 

After  that,  nothing  surprised  me — not  even  the 
strange  noises  which  then  took  place  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden.  They  grew  so  loud,  however,  that  I 
went  out  to  look  for  them,  and  found  that  they  were 
occasioned  by  Mr.  Rummery  giving  vent  to  emotion. 
The  tears  were  streaming  down  his  face,  and  he  had 
filled  my  wheelbarrow  with  my  potatoes,  and  was 
wheeling  them  away.  I  asked  him  why. 

"P — poor — old — Ambrose,"  replied  Mr.  Rum- 
mery in  a  broken  voice.  "  They  fatherless  little 
ones  o'  his'n  :  they — they ." 

Old  Mr.  Rummery  could  say  no  more,  but  averted 
his  head  and  gurgled.  Then,  with  his  shoulders 
shaking,  he  wheeled  my  potatoes  away  to  the 
succour  of  the  orphans. 

So  poor  old  Ambrose  has  made  a  stir  in  the  world 
at  last. 


VII 

Brown    Milk 


MR.  NICHOLAS  ODDY,  cornfactor,  of  Devizes,  in 
Wiltshire,  received  me  by  appointment  in  the 
international  "  salon  "  of  the  Metropolitan  Palace 
Hotel,  which  is  fashionably  situated  in  Bloomsbury 
Square,  London. 

With  Mr.  Nicholas  Oddy  was  Mrs  Nicholas  Oddy, 
cornfactor's  mate,  also  of  Devizes. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Oddy  offered  me  a  hearty  Wiltshire 
welcome  :  Mr.  Oddy  explaining  to  Mrs.  Oddy  that  I 
was  young  Jack's  friend,  who  wrote  for  the  news- 
papers, but  that  I  wouldn't  take  anything.  To 
which  Mrs.  Oddy  replied  that  if  I  was  young  Jack's 
friend  I  would  have  to  take  something,  even  if  it  was 
only  a  cup  of  cocoa. 

Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Oddy  expressed  repeatedly,  in 
very  polite  terms,  their  sense  of  obligation  at  my 
having  come  to  see  them.  They  knew  that  young 
Jack  had  written  to  me,  for  he  was  a  good  lad  and 
without  pride,  although  he  had  passed  for  a  doctor  ; 

59 


60  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

and  was  always  showing  kindnesses  to  his  old  aunt 
and  uncle. 

But  they  had  never  for  one  moment  supposed — 
no,  not  for  one  moment — that  anything  would  come 
of  it.  A  busy  man,  such  as  they  knew  me  to  be — 
they  had  Jack's  word  for  that — must  have  many 
more  important  matters  on  hand  than  Jack's  old 
aunt  and  uncle  from  Devizes.  Still,  Jack  said  I 
would  come,  and  Jack  was  right ;  for,  sure  enough, 
I  had  come,  and  they  were  extraordinarily  obliged  to 
me  for  coming,  as  they  were  sure  Jack  would  be, 
when  Jack  heard  that  I  had  come,  which  he  certainly 
would ;  and  at  the  risk  of  offending  me  they  really 
must  venture  again  to  insist  on  my  having  something 
— if  it  was  only  a  cup  of  cocoa. 

Upon  their  cocoa  being  for  the  second  time  declined 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Oddy  looked  at  each  other  silently, 
but  with  a  certain  grave  intentness,  like  two  old 
owls  conferring.  And  then  Mr.  Oddy  spoke.  He 
said  : 

"  You  mustn't  mind  us.  Devizes  is  a  slow  old 
place,  and  we're  a  slow  old  couple.  We  live  a  long 
way  out  of  the  fashion  and  we  don't  know  any 
better.  Very  likely  cocoa  isn't  thought  a  lot  of 
here,  not  like  it  is  in  Devizes.  Perhaps  you  would 
prefer  a  glass  of  port  wine  ?  " 

I  do  not  often  drink  port  just  before  dinner  in 
August,  and  I  was  therefore  forced  into  declining  yet 
again  the  proffered  hospitality  of  Mr.  Oddy.  That 
gentleman  again  engaged  himself  in  silent  conference 
with  Mrs.  Oddy,  and  again  spoke  : 

"  At  any  rate,"  he  said,  "  you  will  eat  a  bit  o' 
dinner  with  Mrs.  O.  and  me  ?  " 


BROWN  MILK  61 

I  acceded  readily  to  this  charming  proposition  ; 
and  the  owls,  after  blinking  confusedly  at  each  other 
in  silence,  then  blinked  benignantly  at  me,  and, 
speaking  as  with  one  voice,  exclaimed  : 

"  Well    .    .        that's  one  up  for  Jack  !  " 

Mr.  Oddy  then  extended  the  terms  of  his  invita- 
tion so  as  to  include  dramatic  entertainment  and  a 
"  bit  o'  supper  "  and 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  we  thought  perhaps,  if  you 
didn't  happen  to  be  too  busy  with  your  writings,  you 
would  come  along  with  us  to-night  to  the  first 
house  at  the  Fastideum,  where  we  thought  we'd  go  to 
have  a  look  at  Miss  Daggs,  the  singer,  and  Polgo,  this 
educated  Ape,  and — all  the  other  London  actors. 
And  after  that  we  thought — that  is,  Jack  thought — 
that  perhaps  you  would  take  and  show  us  round 
a  few  of  the  sights.  There's  one  sight  in  particular 
Jack  says  we've  got  to  be  sure  and  ask  you  to  show 
us.  It's  a  kind  of  a  hotel — a  caffy,  as  the  saying 
goes." 

Mrs.  Nicholas  Oddy  now  rose  from  her  chair. 
"  I'll  leave  you  gentlemen  to  talk  it  over,"  she 
remarked.  "It  is  time  I  got  into  some  party 
clothes,  if  we  are  going  to  this  theatre.  Can  you 
tell  me,  young  man,  if  I'm  expected  to  dress  low  ?  " 

It  was  long  since  I  had  visited  the  Fastideum,  that 
resort  of  the  hardened  pleasure-seeker ;  but  I  felt 
safe  in  assuring  Mrs.  Oddy  that  any  sort  of  bodily 
covering  would  satisfy  its  conventions. 

Mrs.  Oddy  sighed  contentedly.  "  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  she  said.  "  I'm  not 
used  to  these  cutaways,  and  they  make  me  feel 


62  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

ashamed.  Nick,  make  the  young  gentleman  have 
something,  if  it's  only  a  cup — a  glass  of  ale." 

Mr.  Oddy  being  thus  exhorted,  and  the  exhortant 
having  departed,  proceeded  to  wink  in  a  profound 
and  knowing  manner.  "  I'll  wager,"  he  asserted 
"  that  you  know  a  better  drink  than  port  or  ale  or 
cocoa,  if  only  you're  left  to  choose  it  for  yourself. 
Now,  speak  up.  What  do  folk  drink  in  London  ?  " 

"  At  this  hour,"  I  confessed,  "  they  usually  drink 
gin  or  vermouth,  or  both." 

"  Then  just  you  ask  that  young  fellar  to  bring  us  a 
tot." 

The  brocaded  Person  to  whom  Mr.  Oddy  referred 
in  these  inconsiderate  terms  was  accordingly  per- 
suaded to  deal  with  this  matter,  and,  when  he  had 
returned  with  an  immense  plated  salver  supporting 
some  almost  invisible  beakers,  Mr.  Oddy,  shutting 
one  eye,  performed  an  audible  act  of  imbibition. 

"  K-k-keen,"  commented  Mr.  Oddy,  "  a  k-k-keen 
drink.  But — bless  me,  if  I  don't  prefer  an  old- 
fashioned  glass  o'  port.  We're  an  old-fashioned  lot 
in  Devizes." 

"  As  I  was  saying,"  continued  Mr.  Oddy,  "  young 
Jack  was  very  downright  about  one  thing  :  whatever 
else  we  did,  we  was  to  be  sure  and  persuade  you  to 
take  us  to  this  here  caffy,  getting  on  about  supper 
time.  But  our  treat,  you  understand — our  treat. 
Now  don't  let  there  be  any  mistake  about  that. 
This  here  caffy,  they  call  it — now,  what  do  they  call 
it  ?  Ah  !  they  call  it  the  Caffy  da  Egypt." 

I  started.     My  hat,  how  I  started  ! 

Mr.  Oddy  perceived  that  I  started.     "  Ha  !  ha  !  " 


BROWN  MILK  63 

he  exclaimed.  "  You've  got  a  toe,  as  well  as  me,  I 
see.  Ha  !  ha  !  " 

I  endeavoured  in  the  most  delicate  possible 
manner  to  hint  to  old  Mr.  Oddy  that,  taking  every- 
thing into  consideration,  including  Mrs.  Oddy,  one 
shouldn't,  that  is  to  say,  one  couldn't — er — well, 
hang  it  !  We've  all  heard  of  the  Caf6  d'Egypte. 

But  old  Mr.  Oddy  was  deaf  to  my  delicate  repre- 
sentations. And  before  I  could  argue  further  with 
him  a  sudden  crackling  proclaimed  the  stately 
approach  of  Mrs.  Oddy. 

I  will  refrain  from  describing  the  extremely 
satisfying  repast  which  then  ensued.  Suffice  it  to 
say  that  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Oddy  ate  their  dinner 
with  great  gusto  and  hearty  appetite,  and  that  they 
particularly  relished  the  Peche  Melba.  Mr.  Oddy 
was  heard  three  several  times  thus  to  admonish  the 
Person  in  brocade  : 

"Hi,  young  fellar  !  You  can  bring  me  some  more 
o'  that — that  canned  fruit  and  custard." 

Then  the  Fastideum,  where  the  Educated  Ape 
and  other  accomplished  artistes  were  presented  to 
us.  Miss  Daggs,  "  the  singer  " — i.e.,  Miss  Minnie 
Daggs,  distinguished  for  her  interpretation  of  that 
almost  national  anthem,  "  Lift  It  Up  a  Little  Bit  " — 
surpassed  herself  in  audacity.  Old  Mrs.  Oddy,  who 
ought,  by  all  the  rules,  to  have  been  extremely 
shocked  by  Minnie's  antics,  was  merely  sympathetic. 

"  Poor  girl,"  she  remarked,  "  I  hope  they  gives  her 
decent  money.  It  must  be  very  hard  work,  this 
bobbing  about.  It  must  be  very  difficult  to  sing  so 
loud,  too  !  " 


64  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

The  final  exit  of  Miss  Daggs  relieved  my  spirit  of 
its  top  layer  of  foreboding.  But  the  top  layer  was  a 
very  thin  one  :  much  remained  beneath  it.  For 
there  was  still  the  Caf£  d'Egypte  to  be  faced. 

And  the  Cafe  d'Egypte  was  in  a  particularly 
regardless  mood  that  night,  a  circumstance  which 
was  rendered  additionally  embarrassing  by  the 
behaviour  of  old  Mr.  Oddy,  who,  preceding  us  into 
the  highly  illuminated  "  lounge  "  of  that  institution, 
seated  himself  at  a  table  which  was  already  in  the 
partial  occupation  of  a — a  lady. 

She  was  a  very  vivid  lady,  very  definitely  hatted. 
She  looked  at  old  Mr.  Oddy  with  very  big,  bold  eyes, 
and  by  the  time  we  reached  the  table  Mr.  Oddy  had 
already  shaken  hands  with  her. 

"  An  old  friend,  my  dear — or  near  enough," 
explained  Mr.  Oddy  to  Mrs.  Oddy  as  we  took  our 
seats.  "  She  mistook  me  for  poor  Archibald.  'What 
cheer,  Archibald  ?  '  "  she  said. 

"  Oh  !  Poor  Archibald,"  commented  Mrs.  Oddy. 
"  Before  he  hurt  his  face  with  that  motor-bicycle,  he 
and  Nicholas  were  always  being  mistaken  for  each 
other.  I  never  knew  two  brothers  who  were  more 
alike,  except  for  their  features  and  the  colour  of 
their  hair.  I  suppose  you're  from  Devizes,  miss  ?  " 

"No/'  replied  the  lady  :    "  from  Pimlico." 

"  Well,  I  somehow  thought,"  admitted  Mrs.  Oddy, 
"  that  you  didn't  have  quite  the  look  of  a  Devizes  gal. 
It's  the — er — complexion,  I  suppose." 

I  suppose  it  was,  for  the  lady's  complexion  was 
laid  on  thick.  Her  two  bold  eyes  were  rendered 
conspicuous  by  contrast  with  this  distempering. 


BROWN  MILK  65 

They  possessed  a  quality  of  emphasis,  like  solitary 
plums  in  a  flattened  white  pudding. 

"  When  I  look  round  me,"  mused  Mrs.  Oddy, 
"  at  all  you  London  ladies  here,  it  seems  to  me  that 
you've  all  got  a  sort  of  weary  look." 

"  It's  a  weary  life — in  London,"  replied  the  lady. 

"  So  I've  been  told,"  assented  Mrs.  Oddy. 
"  Nicholas,  ask  the  lady  if  she'll  take  anything.  She 
must  take  something,  if  it's  only  a  cup  o'  cocoa." 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  the  lady  ;  "  I'll  take  a  cup 
o'  coffee.  With  brown  milk,"  she  added,  looking 
sideways  at  the  waiter. 

"  There  now  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Oddy.  "  Brown 
milk.  You  have  got  to  come  to  London  to  learn  the 
latest.  There's  a  lot  of  strange  things  in  London. 
We  don't  know  half  that's  going  on." 

The  lady  assented,  with  a  thin  smile. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  a  look  at  this  milk,"  said 
Mrs.  Oddy's  husband,  as  the  waiter  appeared  with  a 
tray. 

"  Sorry,"  replied  the  lady  ;  "  they've  mixed  it  in 
already."  She  showed  them  her  cup ;  then, 
quickly  drank  up  its  contents. 

"Pardon  me,  ma'am!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Oddy, 
"  but  you've  spilt  some  on  your  collar.  It's  such  a 
pretty  collar.  Crochet,  I  believe." 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  lady.  "  An  old-fashioned 
pattern.  '  Irish  rose,'  they  call  it.  Easy  as  easy. 
Perhaps  you'd  like  me  to  show  you." 

"  That  I  would,"  cried  Mrs  Oddy. 

So  Mrs.  Oddy,  from  Devizes,  breathing  hard  and 
crackling,  sat  up  close  to  the  distempered  lady  and 


66  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

touched  her  shapely  hand.  And  old  Mr.  Oddy  sat 
close  by,  nodding  his  approval,  smoking  his  pipe. 

When  we  had  returned  to  the  clean  street  Mr. 
Oddy  expressed  his  disappointment  with  the  CafTy 
da  Egypt  and  his  surprise  at  Jack.  "  Can't  think 
what  the  fellar  sees  in  the  place." 

"  Nor  yet  I,"  assented  Mrs.  Oddy.  "  But,"  she 
added,  "  that  was  a  nice  lady  we  talked  to  inside 
there.  Proud  to  look  at,  but  homely  mannered." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr  Oddy,  "  she  was  a  nice  lady  !  " 

"  But  there  now,"  cried  Mrs.  Oddy,  "  if  we  didn't 
quite  forget  to  ask  her  how  she  comes  to  know  poor 
Archibald  !  " 

"  Well,  well ;  and  so  we  did  !  "  said  old  Mr.  Oddy, 
shaking  his  head  resignedly. 


VIII 

Representing  the  Platoon 


WHEN  George  emerged  from  the  Underground 
Station  and  looked  questioningly  about  him  in 
Edgware  Road,  he  observed  that  that  thoroughfare 
still  wore  its  old  look  of  detachment ;  of  being 
interested  in  any  business  but  its  own.  Other 
London  streets,  particularly  streets  as  wide  and  long 
as  Edgware  Road,  have  their  individual  attractions 
and  purposes.  Thus  people  go  to  Regent  Street  for 
soap,  Oxford  Street  to  buy  hats,  and  Bond  Street 
to  look  at  jewellery.  They  get  their  motor  cars  in 
Long  Acre  and  their  bicycles  on  Holborn  Viaduct. 
Such  a  dirty  street  as  Old  Street  or  such  a  little 
street  as  Telegraph  Street  has  specific  character — 
one  being  noted  for  rolled  top  desks  and  the  other 
for  sixpenny  Revenue  Stamps.  Even  the  places 
which  people  never  go  to  are  famed  for  something  ; 
such  as  Aldgate,  which  is  associated  with  a  pump. 
Bur  Edgware  Road  is  remarkable  for  possessing 
absolutely  no  distinct  qualification  beyond  that  of 
leading  elsewhere.  So  all  the  people  who  form  the 

67 


68  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

crowd  in  Edgware  Road  have  that  look  of  not 
belonging  to  the  place  ;  of  being  on  some  errand 
aloof  from  the  thoroughfare. 

George  stopped  one  of  these  wayfarers  and  asked 
a  question,  but  the  wayfarer — a  youth  of  countrified 
appearance  who  smelt  of  sheep  and  apples — looked 
indifferently  at  George  and  George's  soiled  uniform 
and  tin  hat  and  bulging  equipment,  and  replied  that 
he  did  not  live  in  London  and  couldn't  say.  Then 
George  tried  a  lady. 

She  was  a  large  lady  whose  corsets  had  broken 
faith  with  her,  with  the  result  that  that  part  of  her 
figure  which  indelicate  people  would  call  the  stomach 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  added  to  her  person  after 
completion  of  the  main  structure.  It  was  an  abrupt 
promontory  of  unsuitable  shape,  which  was  em- 
phasized rather  than  concealed  by  a  short  apron  of 
black  alpaca.  The  lady,  on  being  questioned  by 
George,  put  her  hands  beneath  the  apron  and  rested 
them  upon  the  promontory.  She  looked  at  George 
in  his  battered  equipment  with  more  interest  than 
the  countrified  young  man  had  shown,  but  she  offered 
him  no  better  comfort.  She  was  wearing  a  shabby 
old  black  bonnet,  and  she  shook  it  at  him,  dis- 
seminating small  black  beads,  and  saying  :  "  Joy 
Street  ?  Never  'eard  of  it.  I'm  a  stranger  'ere." 

But  she  was  a  sympathetic  stranger  and  directed 
him  to  seek  information  at  the  "  Homer  Colonial  " — 
a  very  large  provision  shop  which  she  indicated  with 
a  gesture  of  the  elbow,  her  hands  being  still  at  rest 
beneath  the  apron.  At  the  Homer  Colonial,  the 
stranger  said,  they  were  very  civil  and  knew  a  lot 


REPRESENTING  THE  PLATOON  69 

So  George  conveyed  himself,  and  his  tin  hat,  and 
his  rifle,  and  his  kit  bag,  and  his  knapsack,  and 
various  independent  packages  which  were  fixed  to  his 
belt,  across  the  road.  At  the  provision  shop  he 
found  a  lady  cashier  in  pince-nez,  and  all  the  latest 
regimental  brooches,  who  promptly  directed  him 
to  Joy  Street,  and  looked  at  him  with  real  interest — 
particularly  at  his  collar  badges.  After  his  inter- 
view with  the  lady  cashier,  George  had  no  difficulty 
in  finding  Joy  Street,  and,  as  it  turned  out  to  be  not 
much  of  a  street,  he  had  little  difficulty  in  finding  the 
particular  house  which  he  wanted.  This  was  a 
little  shop  at  No.  7,  at  the  small  square  window  of 
which  he  stood  for  a  minute  or  two,  gazing  absently 
at  the  peculiar  assortment  of  articles  which  was 
therein  displayed  to  view. 

George  was  a  rather  shy  young  man  and  he  was 
afflicted  with  a  slight  stammer,  and  he  always 
hesitated  at  a  shop  window  before  entering  the  shop — 
even  though  he  knew  beforehand,  which  he  seldom 
did,  exactly  what  he  wanted  to  buy.  In  the  window 
of  this  little  shop  George  saw  — or  would  have  seen 
had  he  been  really  looking  at  what  was  before  him — 
a  distressing  array  of  coloured  postcards,  all  of  which 
served  to  illustrate  how  inadequate  is  the  margin 
between  fun  and  gloom.  He  would  have  seen  also 
a  jar  containing  very  rocky  rock-cakes,  a  tray 
containing  some  unhappy-looking  caramels,  and 
some  further  trays  containing  nothing  but  the 
empty  papers  on  which  caramels  are  customarily 
displayed.  Here  and  there,  adhering  to  the  windows, 
were  cards  showing  penny  pencils  or  pieces  of  rubber, 


70  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

or  bargain  packets  of  stationery,  and  all  along  the 
bottom  of  the  window  were  arranged  screw  stop- 
pered vessels,  containing  bottled  stomach-ache  in 
different  colours. 

George  saw  very  little  of  all  this,  however,  for  he 
was  looking  at  himself  in  the  window-glass  and  re- 
hearsing the  sentence  "  goo-goo-goo-good  after- 
noon," and  trying  to  get  it  terse.  The  face  which  he 
saw  reflected  in  the  window-glass  was  a  refined  and 
fastidious  face  ;  the  face  of  an  imaginative  and 
intelligent  young  man.  But  it  was  at  present  rather 
twisted  and  agonised  by  reason  of  efforts  incidental 
to  this  contest  with  superfluous  goo's.  When  he 
thought  that  he  had  had  sufficient  practice,  he 
turned  abruptly  and  plunged  at  the  door,  which  he 
opened  amid  the  abusive  protests  of  a  noisy  bell. 

George  closed  the  door  behind  him,  but  the  bell, 
still  shivering,  continued  to  utter  intermittent 
sounds,  while  he  looked  round  the  little  empty  shop. 
The  bell  had  evidently  attracted  attention,  for  a 
voice  behind  the  counter  was  heard  to  exclaim  : 
"  Shop  !  "  and  another  voice  to  answer  "  Right  !  " 
Then  the  first  voice  repeated  "  Shop  !  "  giving  the 
word  a  reproachful  emphasis,  and  the  second  voice 
again  replied,  "  All  right,  I  say  !  ...  If  any- 
body," added  the  second  voice,  "  was  to  cut  their- 
selves  into  a  million  pieces,  then  perhaps  some  people 
would  be  satisfied."  On  this  the  little  door  behind 
the  counter  was  opened  to  give  entrance  to  a  bounc- 
ing young  woman  with  red  hair  and  red  lips,  who 
looked  accusingly  at  George,  and  muttered  the 
monosyllable  :  "  Well  ?  " 


REPRESENTING  THE  PLATOON         71 

"  Goo-goo-goo-goo-goo-goo-good  afternoon,"  said 
George. 

"  Ow.  .  .  Good  afternoon,"  replied  the  young 
woman  indifferently,  "  What  d'ya  want  ?  " 

"  Y-y-y-y-jyow  I  think,"  stammered  George.  "  Is 
your  name  Miss  Walker  ?  " 

"  Bull's  Eye ! "  rejoined  the  young  woman. 
"  What  about  it  ?  " 

George  was  twisting  his  foot  about,  a  sign  which 
together  with  slight  facial  contortions  would  have 
suggested  to  anybody  who  knew  him  that  he  would 
answer  in  a  minute.  In  little  more  than  a  minute, 
he  did  so,  saying  :  "  M-m-m-my  name  is  George." 

"  The  same  as  Mr.  Robey  and  Our  King,"  re- 
marked Miss  Walker,  looking  at  George  reflectively. 
"  Well,  George,  'ow  are  you  ?  " 

George  replied  that  he  was  ni-ni-nicely,  thanks. 
He  went  on  to  suggest  that  perhaps  Miss  Walker  had 
heard  of  him. 

"  Cannot  say  I  have,  George,"  rejoined  Miss 
Walker.  "  But  don't  let  that  upset  you.  There's 
some  people  ain't  'eard  of  Robey." 

"  You  exaggerate  now,"  protested  George.  "  Do 
you  happen  to  know  a  lad  named  Charley  Dodds  ?  " 

"  Not  'arf !  "  Miss  Walker  answered  eagerly. 
"  'Im  as  uses  the  nickname  of  Charley  Chaplin.  Do 
you  know  'im  ?  " 

"  I  know  him  very  well,"  said  George.  "  He 
saved  my  life." 

"  Go  on  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Walker. 

"  Do  you  also  happen  to  know  a  lad  named  Alfred 
Gubbins  ?  "  continued  George. 


72  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  Alf  ?  "  cried  Miss  Walker.  "  'Im  as  we  nick- 
named Dan  Leno  ?  Of  course  I  know  'im.  Do 
you  ?  " 

"  Rather !  "  said  George.     "  He  saved  my  life." 

"  Fancy  that !  "  mused  Miss  Walker.  She  looked 
thoughtful  for  a  moment  or  two  and  then  observed  : 
"  You  seem  to  know  a  lot  of  soldiers." 

"  Well,  yes,"  admitted  George  "  You  see,  1-1 
m-m-mix  with  them." 

"  Ow  !  "  Miss  Walker  again  looked  thoughtful. 
"  Then  per'aps,"  she  suggested,  "  you've  'card  o' 
little  Fatty  Morgan.  A  Welsh  soldier.  'Im  as  we 
christened  Lloyd  George." 

"  Little  Morgan  ?  Goo-good  gracious,  yes,"  as- 
sented George.  He  saved  my  life," 

"  What  again  \  "  cried  Miss  Walker,  incredulously. 
She  looked  at  George  with  manifest  wonder,  and  at 
last  said,  very  gravely,  "  Pardon  me,  Sport,  but  are 
you  a  blessed  cat  ?  " 

George  smiled  bashfully.  He  admitted,  stammer- 
ing much,  that  he  was  more  often  supposed  to  be  a 
bit  of  a  dog,  which  led  him  to  explain,  with  a  re- 
dundancy of  "  p-p-plains,"  the  object  of  his  call. 
He  had  been  deputed  by  the  soldiers  named — 
Messrs.  Gubbins,  Morgan  and  Dodd — to  visit  Miss 
Walker  and  cheer  her  up. 

"  Me  !  "  demanded  Miss  Walker,  lifting  her  eye- 
brows. 

"  Y-y-y-you,"  said  George  abruptly.  He  fiddled 
at  his  belt  and,  detaching  one  of  the  independent 
packages  which  have  already  been  mentioned, 
placed  it  on  the  counter.  "  Here's  a  souvenir  from 


REPRESENTING  THE  PLATOON        73 

Alfred  to  begin  with,"  he  explained.  "  Sh-sh-shell 
case." 

Miss  Walker  regaled  the  souvenir  without 
enthusiasm.  "  Young  Will  Parsons  sent  me  one  of 
those  a  week  ago,"  she  remarked,  "  and  Freddy 
Cooper  he  sent  me  one  the  week  before  that.  Are 
they  friends  o'  yourn,  too — young  Will  Parsons  and 
Freddy  Cooper  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  George  warmly.  "  Why, 
they  s-s-s-saved " 

"  I  know,"  said  Miss  Walker,  sympathetically. 
"  Meeow  !  Meeow  !  " 

It  was  George's  turn  to  ask  a  question  now. 
"  How  do  you  happen  to  know  all  these  chaps  ?  " 
he  enquired. 

"  Know  ?  "  repeated  Miss  Walker.  "  Why,  I'm 
engaged  to  them." 

"  I  s-s-see,"  said  George,  respectfully.  He  de- 
tached another  souvenir,  a  small  shell-case  like  the 
first,  from  his  belt,  and  put  it  beside  the  other  on  the 
counter.  "  Charley  Chaplin  sends  you  this,"  he 
remarked. 

Miss  Walker  hardly  looked  at  the  shell-case  at  all. 
She  was  leaning  across  the  counter  and  looking  at 
George.  She  was  looking  at  him  with  her  head  on 
one  side.  At  last  she  said,  speaking  rather  slowly, 
"  Ain't  you  engaged  to  nobody  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly  engaged,"  answered  George. 

"Where  does  the  hitch  come  in?"  demanded 
Miss  Walker. 

"  Her  aunt,"  replied  George. 

The  aunt,  it  appeared,  took  the  view  that  George 


74  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

was  too  young.  Miss  Walker  expressed  agreement 
with  the  aunt.  She  asked,  in  an  off -handed  kind  of 
manner,  whether  the  young  lady  lived  in  London, 
and,  on  being  told  that  the  young  lady  lived  in 
Leamington,  remarked,  still  off-handedly,  that  she 
had  heard  of  Leamington  as  being  a  pleasant  seaside 
place.  She  went  on  to  ask  with  an  air  of  purely 
polite  interest  what  the  young  lady  did  there.  She 
was  told  that  at  present  the  young  lady  was  driving 
a  motor  lorry.  At  this  Miss  Walker  grinned  and 
uttered  suddenly  the  words  "  Pip  !  Pip  !  " 

"  War  work,  you  know,"  explained  George. 

"  Of  course,  I  know — trousers  !  "  exclaimed  Miss 
Walker.  She  then  asked  abruptly  what  George  did 
for  a  living. 

"  Oh,  muck  about,"  said  George.  "  I'm  a  soldier 
just  now." 

"  Go  on  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Walker.  "  I  thought 
from  yar  uniform  ya  might  be  a  bishop.  What 
d'ya  do  in  civil  ?  " 

"  I  com-p-p-pose  P-p-poems  and  p-p-paint  P-p- 
pictures,"  replied  George. 

"  My  word ! "  was  Miss  Walker's  comment. 
"  This  war  has  put  some  funny  people  into  khaki. 
Why  did  the  other  fellars  send  you  along  ?  " 

"  To  cheer  you  up,"  replied  George.  "  To  take 
you  out.  A  bit  of  dinner,  don't  you  know,  and  a 
show." 

"  What,  a  Picture  House ! "  exclaimed  Miss 
Walker. 

"  Ye-es,"  assented  George,  wincing  slightly.  "  Un- 
less you'd  prefer  a  play." 


\ 
REPRESENTING  THE  PLATOON         75 

"  You  mean  a  piece/'  replied  Miss  Walker  eagerly, 
radiating  warmth  from  her  eyes.  "  But  not  that 
piece  with  the  Italian  lady  in  it,"  she  added,  clouding 
slightly.  What  do  they  call  it  now  ?  " 

George  supposed  that  she  referred  to  the  play 
called  "  Romance,"  and  she  acknowledged  that  that 
was  the  piece  in  her  mind  and  expressed  aversion 
from  it.  "What's  wrong  with  it  ?  A  sell  for  every- 
body, me  lad  ;  that's  what's  wrong  with  it.  When 
she  wants  to  click,  'e  don't ;  and  when  'e  wants  to 
click,  she  won't.  In  the  end,  they  don't  click  orf  at 
all.  So  they're  both  sucked  in.  A  rotten  play  !  " 

George  suggested  that  she  should  choose  some  other 
play,  and  then  remembering  his  obligations  produced 
the  souvenir  from  Morgan — a  shell-case.  "  All 
right  !  Stand  it  with  the  others ! "  said  Miss 
Walker,  and  reverted  to  the  question  of  entertain- 
ment. "  If  I'm  to  choose,"  she  said,  "  what  about 
a  hopera  ?  "  George  showed  eager  acquiescence, 
remarking  that  he  was  f-f-fond  of  opera. 

"  Righto  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Walker.  "  Let's  see 
Harry  Binks  in  '  Cough  it  up.'  "  George,  surprised 
out  of  his  usual  bashfulness,  confessed  that  he  had 
been  thinking  of  Pagliacci.  But  Miss  Walker, 
looking  doubtful,  confessed  that  she  had  never 
heard  of  Harry  Archie.  Who  was  he  ? 

"  Never  mind,"  said  George.  "  Binks  is  much 
funnier.  Get  your  hat  on." 

But  at  this  suggestion  Miss  Walker  looked  very 
surprised.  "  Hat  on  ?  "  she  repeated.  "  Hat  on  ! 
Now?" 

"  Yes,"  assented  George.     "  Why  not  ?  " 


76  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  You  ain't  even  'eld  me  'and  yet,"  she  murmured. 

George  extended  an  unemotional  hand  :  "  P-p-put 
it  there,  old  thing,"  he  stammered. 

Miss  Walker  accepted  delivery  of  the  hand  with  an 
air  of  quiet  amusement.  She  remarked  that  he  was 
a  one.  "  Why  ?  "  demanded  George.  Miss  Walker 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  was  blest  if  she  knew, 
but  she  supposed  that  he  had  "  led  a  wild  past." 
Miss  Walker  then  proclaimed  her  intention  of 
leaving  him  for  a  few  seconds  while  she  negotiated 
leave  of  absence  with  somebody  to  whom  she 
referred  as  her  old  woman.  If  George  should  see 
this  individual  he  was  to  be  sure  and  remember  that 
he  was  Miss  Walker's  uncle. 

"  Oh,  I  say,"  protested  George.  "  Make  it 
b-b-brother." 

"  No  fear  !  "  Miss  Walker  exclaimed,  as  she  went 
out  through  the  little  door.  "  Me  brother  called 
last  week." 

After  a  short  absence,  Miss  Walker  reappeared 
through  the  little  door,  wearing  a  coloured  woollen 
coat  and  carrying  a  hat.  "It's  all  right,  Oswald," 
she  announced  to  George.  "  The  old  girl's  turned 
agreeable  and  I  can  come.  Where  are  we  going  for 
our  bit  o'  grub  ?  "  Miss  Walker  busied  herself  with 
her  hat  and  her  fringe  as  she  spoke,  there  being  a 
small  mirror  behind  the  counter  which  advertised 
on  its  face  the  attractions  of  a  brand  of  nougat  now 
unobtainable.  George  professed  impartiality  on  the 
subject  of  eating-houses.  "  What's  wrong  with  the 
g-good  old  Berkeley  ?  "  he  submitted  at  last. 


REPRESENTING  THE  PLATOON         77 

'  Never  'card  o'  the  place,"  said  Miss  Walker, 
shortly.  "  Why  not  go  somewhere  classy  ?  The 
Corner  'Ouse,  for  instance  ?  " 

Oh  ...  of  course,  if  she  would  rather.  .  . 
George's  manner  was  polite,  but  unenthusiastic.  Miss 
Walker  gave  him  a  quick  glance  expressive  of  mutual 
understanding. 

"  It  need  not  cost  a  lot  of  money,"  she  pointed 
out — "  not  if  we  keep  to  sandwidges."  George 
grinned,  and  suggested  that  it  would  perhaps  run  to 
a  steak. 

"  R  !  "  assented  Miss  Walker  in  a  tone  of  warm 
encouragement :  "I  daresay  you  fancies  a  nice 
rump  steak.  You  don't  get  them  ser  often  in  the 
trenches,  eh  ?  " 

"  No,"  admitted  George.  "  Only  on  al-al-alter- 
nate  days." 

"  Never  on  a  weekday  ?  "  exclaimed  Miss  Walker, 
raising  her  eyebrows  in  horror.  "  You  pore  boy  ! 
Well,  you  'ave  a  steak  then — see  ?  And  I'll  interfere 
with  a  sossidge.  And,  'ere — I  say — take  this." 
She  had  come  from  behind  her  counter  and  now  she 
pressed  a  screw  of  paper  into  his  hand.  George  stared 
down  at  this  unexpected  offering,  while  she  cut 
short  his  anticipated  protest  with  hurried  words  of 
explanation. 

"  It's  a  ten-bob  note,  kid.  See  ?  I  kin  spare  it 
easy.  And — and — I  know  the  Army  !  " 

The  d-d-deuce  she  did  !  George  was  fearfully 
confused  and  appreciative  and  all  that,  and 
twisted  his  mouth  and  foot  about  a  good  deal, 


78  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

but   he  happened    to  have   c-c-cashed  a  cheque 
and 

"  /  know,"  interrupted  Miss  Walker.  "  The  Army 
is  proud.  It  always  was.  But  you  put  that  away — 
in  case.  I  can  spare  it,  Sport." 

Of  course  she  could  spare  it.  That  was  not  for  a 
moment  in  question,  but  did  not  she  s-s-see 

Miss  Walker  again  interrupted  George,  saying  : 
"  I  see  the  colour  of  your  coat,  Sport,  that's  all  about 
it."  So  George,  blushing  furiously,  said  no  more, 
but  stuffed  the  piece  of  paper  into  an  upper  pocket 
of  his  service  jacket.  He  then  asked  Miss  Walker 
if  she  thought  it  likely  that  he  would  be  able  to  find  a 
taxi-cab. 

"  Taxi  I "  repeated  Miss  Walker,  once  more 
displaying  horror.  "  You  are  a  lad  !  Why  a  taxi 
to  the  Corner  'Ouse  would  cost  three  bob.  Ain't  a 
bus  good  enough  ?  " 

Yes — if  she  preferred  it. 

Miss  Walker  replied  that  she  preferred  reason  to 
swank.  There  was  no  sense  in  being  rash.  Besides 
.  .  .  local  buses  were  always  so  full  in  these  days 
that  people  were  not  only  permitted,  but  were 
expected  to  "  sit  familiar  "  in  them. 

"  What  a  cheery  little  sort  you  are !  "  said 
George. 

"  Not  at  all,"  protested  Miss  Walker.  "  I  got  a 
big  'eart  for  soldiers.  That's  all  about  it,  and  now, 
if  you  mind  me  hat,  you  can  say  '  Good  Afternoon.'  " 
Miss  Walker  made  a  step  towards  him,  but  George 
remained  quite  stationary  and  uttered  the  word 
"  goo  "  four  times. 


REPRESENTING  THE  PLATOON        79 

"  Oh,  thanks  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Walker  with  irony. 
"  Shall  we  get  along  now  ?  "  George  nodded 
briskly. 

Miss  Walker,  still  standing  close  to  his  side,  looked 
at  him  with  an  expression  of  resentful  wonder. 
"  Ain't  you  going  to  harm  me  ?  "  she  enquired. 

George  blushed  worse  than  ever.  He  replied  to  her 
question  with  an  emphatic  negative.  He  said  that 
he  would  not  harm  a  fly. 

"  You  soft  old  thing,  you !  "  exclaimed  Miss 
Walker.  "  I  don't  mean  harm.  I  mean  harm." 
She  extended  an  arm  in  objective  illustration  of  her 
meaning. 

"  How  slow  I  am,"  admitted  George,  taking  the 
arm  very  carefully  and  preparing  to  lead  Miss 
Walker  from  the  shop. 

Miss  Walker  felt  bound  to  agree  that  he  was 
certainly  not  as  fast  as  a  fire  engine.  She  also 
wanted  to  know,  with  reference  to  this  stiff  formality, 
whether  this  constituted  his  idea  of  harming  a  girl. 
He  confessed  that  it  did. 

Miss  Walker  remarked  that  he  made  her  laugh. 
Then,  putting  her  own  arm  round  his  waist,  and 
seizing  his  arm  with  a  cry  of  "  'Ere — Come  over  !  " 
she  flung  the  latter  about  her  neck,  explaining 
cheerily  :  "  This  is  our  style  in  Paddington." 

George  was  very  surprised  at  this,  and  looked  at 
her  very  thoughtfully.  Then,  still  looking  thought- 
ful, he  deliberately  lifted  her  chin  and  kissed  her. 
A  thoughtful  kiss.  A  scholarly  kiss.  A  kiss 
suggestive  of  psychological  research. 


80  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  Oh,"  remarked  Miss  Walker,  on  regaining  her 
breath.  "  So  you  arc  a  soldier  after  all !  " 

"Yes,"  admitted  George.  "And  re-re-representing 
the  Platoon." 


IX 

Private  Jupp's  Mission 


MY  pretty  cousin  had  been  entertaining  me  to  what 
she  called  a  "  spin  "  in  her  brother's  motor-car. 
My  pretty  cousin  had  only  just  learnt  how  to  drive 
her  brother's  motor-car,  and  she  drove  it  with  more 
courage  than  art. 

My  pretty  cousin's  brother  had  gone  to  be  an 
Army  doctor  at  Aldershot,  and  my  pretty  cousin 
remained  in  charge  of  his  house  and  of  the  new  car 
and  old  "  locum  "  which  he  had  left  behind  him. 

I  am  glad  to  say  that  we  completed  the  spin 
without  bloodshed,  though  my  head  did  a  little 
spinning  on  its  own  account  as  we  mounted  the 
doorstep  of  my  pretty  cousin's  brother's  pretty 
house.  It  is  a  suburban  house. 

A  maid  opened  the  door  to  us,  and,  after  spinning 
round  and  round  (as  it  seemed  to  me),  addressed  my 
pretty  cousin,  who  also  was  spinning  round  and 
round.  The  maid  said  something  about  a  drawing- 
room  and  a  soldier,  and  then  my  pretty  cousin,  still 
F  81 


82  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

spinning,  took  my  arm  ;  and  then  we  revolved  in 
unison. 

Very  soon  I  found  that  I  was  sitting  on  a  revolving 
chair  in  a  revolving  drawing-room  looking  helplessly 
at  a  large,  revolving  soldier,  who  carried  a  bandaged 
arm  in  a  revolving  sling.  He  had  a  very  large 
mouth  and  very  white  teeth,  with  which  he  per- 
formed a  revolving  grin.  I  then  closed  my  eyes. 
When  I  opened  them  the  room  had  left  off  revolving, 
so  also  had  my  pretty  cousin,  and  so  also  had  the 
soldier.  But  the  soldier  still  grinned.  His  grin  was 
wide,  enthusiastic,  and  respectful.  He  spoke  to  my 
pretty  cousin,  and  his  voice  was  enthusiastic  and 
respectful,  too.  He  said  : — 

"  Miss  Pike,  I  believe  ?  Right !  George  Wyatt's 
bit  o'  stuff,  I  believe  ?  Right  ! 

"  Well,  miss,"  continued  the  soldier.  "  I'm  glad 
to  meet  ya.  George  Wyatt  is  my  chum."  The 
soldier  extended  his  effective  arm — the  left  one.  My 
pretty  cousin  extended  an  arm  also,  and  they  shook 
hands  with  mutual  warmth. 

"  I  reckon  as  George  Wyatt,"  the  soldier  then 
added  gravely,  "  is  about  the  best  fellow  we  got  out 
there.  Tenerate,  I  won't  'ear  no  different,  not 
from  nobody.  'E's  my  pal,  is  George  Wyatt.  'E's 
the  most  splendid  fellar  we  got." 

I  was  able  to  meet  the  soldier's  eye,  and  to 
associate  myself  warmly  with  these  sentiments. 
George  Wyatt  is  a  splendid  fellow,  although  he  did 
fail  to  pass  into  the  Indian  Civil  Service.  But  his 
pull  to  leg  is  worth  watching,  and  he  can  do  a  perfect 
imitation  of  G.  P,  Huntley.  In  fact,  he  is  a  perfect 


PRIVATE  JUPFS  MISSION  83 

young  man,  and  there  is  nothing  at  all  the  matter 
with  him  except  his  belief  that  he  can  play  bridge 
and  that  he  is  good  enough  for  my  pretty  cousin. 

The  soldier  resumed  his  conversation  with  Miss 
Pike. 

"  My  name,"  he  said,  "  is  Jupp,  Private  Jupp. 
I  dessay  you've  'eard  George  speak  of  me." 

"  Of  course,"  replied  my  pretty  cousin.  "  You 
are  Bill  Jupp." 

"  That's  me,"  assented  the  soldier.  "  Well  now, 
miss,  I've  come 'ere  out  of  friendship  for  George,  like, 
to  return  a  bit  of  kindness  what  he  done  me  Christmas 
time,  when  'is  arm  was  tied  up  dolly-wise,  the  same 
as  mine  is  now.  I  dessay  you'll  remember  the  time, 
for  'e  came  back  'ome  on  sick  leave,  and  I  dessay  as 
you  seen  him  then.  Just  once  or  twice  like.  Eh  ? 
Ha,  ha." 

My  pretty  cousin,  blushing  rather  evidently, 
confessed  to  having  not  wholly  forgotten  the  circum- 
stance of  Mr.  Wyatt's  last  stay  in  London. 

"Good,"  said  the  soldier.  "Well,  miss,  old  George 
'e  done  me  a  very  good  turn  the  last  time  'e  was 
'ome.  I — er — I  got  a  friend  as  live  in  Plumstead. 
A  young  lady.  She — er — well,  miss,  not  to  make  a 
song  about,  she's  my  bit  o'  stuff.  See  ?  Miss 
Walker  by  name.  I  daresay  you've  'card  George 
talk  of  'er.  No  ?  That's  strange  ! 

"  I  call  it  strange,  miss,"  continued  Mr.  Jupp, 
"  because  George  'e  seemed  to  think  a  lot  of  Miss 
Walker  the  time  'e  came  back  to  the  trenches,  after 
his  bit  of  sick  leave.  'E  talked  about  'er  a  lot  to 
me,  'e  did." 


84  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Pike. 

"  Yes,  miss,  'e  talked  about  'er  zither-playing  an' 
that." 

"  Oh,"  repeated  Miss  Pike. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Mr.  Jupp.  "  'Er  and  some  of 
'er  young  lady  friends,  they  got  up  a  bit  of  a  party 
be'ind  'er  uncle's  little  shop  in  Edgware  Road,  and 
George  'e  talked  a  lot  about  that  party.  'E  told  me 
'e  could  write  a  book  about  that  party. 

"  Ya  see,  miss,  before  ever  he  got  this  push  in  the 
arm  and  before  ever  I  got  ditto,  George  an'  me 
made  a  bargain.  I  showed  'im  Miss  Walker's 
picture,  ya  see,  and  he  showed  me  your'n.  And  one 
day,  when  we  was  chumming  up  together  like  in  our 
dug-out,  I  says  to  him  :  '  I'll  tell  you  what,  mate,'  I 
says.  '  If  you  gets  one  afore  me,'  I  says, '  you  go  and 
see  my  girl,'  I  says,  '  an'  take  'er  to  the  pictures/ 
'  That's  a  bargain  ! '  says  George.  '  Yes,'  I  says, 
'  it's  a  bargain,  George,  and  whenever  I  gits  'ome  I'll 
run  yor  bit  around  likewise  ! '  '  Three  cheers  ! '  says 
George. 

"Well,  miss,"  continued  Private  Jupp,  "as  things 
fell  out  it  was  George's  turn  for  to  go  'ome  first. 
As  'e  said,  so  'e  done.  'E  treated  my  girl  proper. 
'E  took  'er  to  the  pictures.  'E  took  'er  to  the  play. 
'E  bought  her  a  pound  o'  toffee,  a  new  zither  and  a 
gold  watch,  and  'e  paid  a  fellar  to  take  her  photo- 
graph for  to  bring  back  to  me  in  France. 

"  Well,  miss,  poor  old  George  'e's  in  the  trenches 
now,  well  and  'earty,  worse  luck,  and  it's  my  turn 
for  a  rest  at  'ome.  'E  kep'  'is  word  to  me,  and  I'll 
keep  my  word  to  'im.  As  'e  treated  my  bit,  so  I'll 


PRIVATE  JUPP'S  MISSION  85 

treat  'is.  And  .  .  ."  the  soldier  hesitated  and 
coughed,  the  cough  of  modesty  ..."  And,  well, 
miss  .  .  .  HERE  I  AM!" 

My  pretty  cousin  looked  extremely  pleased.  "  I 
suppose,"  she  said  to  me,  "  that  you  can  amuse 
yourself  here  for  an  hour  or  two  while  Bill  and  I  go 
round  the  town  a  bit  ?  " 

I  supposed  that  I  could. 

"  That's  all  right,  then,"  said  my  pretty  cousin. 
"Now,  please, find  Bill  a  glass  of  whatever  it  is  that 
he  oughtn't  to  have  while  I  run  up  and  stick  on  a 
better  hat." 

My  pretty  cousin  came  down  again  soon,  having 
put  on  a  better  than  better  hat,  and  a  dress  to  match. 

"  What  oh  !  "  cried  Private  Jupp,  by  way  of 
intimating  that  he  had  noticed  and  approved  this 
change  of  costume. 

"  'Ow  do  we  go  to  find  a  taxi-cab  ?  "  he  then 
enquired,  adding,  with  a  profound  wink :  "I  can 
see  you  ain't  the  tram  sort." 

"  Never  mind  about  that,"  replied  Miss  Pike, 
"  there's  a  little  car  outside.  I'm  driving  it  at 
present.  We  can  go  for  our  joy-ride  in  that." 

"  What  oh  !  "  exclaimed  Bill. 

It  was  dusk  and  half-past  dinner-time  before  they 
returned.  They  had  lunched  and  they  had  tea'd. 
They  had  been  to  the  play,  they  had  been  to  the 
pictures.  Bill  had  bought  her  the  toffee,  the  zither, 
and  a  tortoise  in  a  jar.  He  carried  these  offerings 
up  the  steps  and  deposited  them  about  my  feet. 
He  then  took  off  his  cap  and  uttered  his  adieux.  He 
said : — 


86  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  Then,  all  bein'  well,  miss,  I'll  see  you  Thursday. 
I  must  git  off  to  Plumstead  now.  The  other  one's 
waiting  for  me  there.  Ya  know  the  one  I  mean — Miss 
Walker.  I'll  say  good-bye,  miss."  He  held  out  his 
hand. 

"  Oh,  but  George  doesn't  say  good-bye  like  that," 
exclaimed  my  pretty  but  surprising  cousin.  "  Say 
good-bye  properly,  Bill." 

"  What  oh  !  "  cried  Private  Jupp. 

And,  winking  furiously  at  me,  that  warrior  com- 
pleted his  mission  in  style. 


X 

A  Joke  for  a  Horse 


HAVING  read  about  all  the  Peace  celebrations  in 
London,  I  naturally  wanted  to  celebrate  too  ;  but, 
having  no  guns  to  burn,  I  burnt  a  piece  of  coal 
instead.  This,  if  you  trouble  to  think  about  it,  is  a 
more  daring  sacrifice  than  that  of  any  gun  ;  for 
there  are  still  five  thousand  guns  to  come,  but  where 
or  when  another  piece  of  coal  is  coming,  Heaven 
only  knows. 

Anyhow,  I  put  fire  to  my  coal,  and,  in  the  fulness 
of  time,  ignited  that  indurate  lump.  Subsequently 
when  the  coal  was  giving  heat  and  glowing  bright, 
I  sat  on  a  little  stool  and  searched  the  embers  for 
alchemic  visions.  In  the  red  heart  of  my  thank- 
offering  I  saw  a  picture  gradually  form  of  trees  and 
cottages,  at  peace,  of  shadowy  by-lanes  and  of  hot 
white  roads,  of  old  bridges  and  of  great  oaks  and 
hornbeams.  These  were  not  prostrate  and  dis- 
membered like  their  war-time  fellows  but  erect  and 
in  full  green.  They  changed  their  shapes  for  my 
amusement. 

87 


88  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

The  picture,  however,  contained  one  stable  and 
unchanging  feature  which  figured  always  in  the 
foreground.  This  was  a  mysterious  living-waggon  ; 
the  kind  of  wheeled  house  which  people  who  do  not 
understand  the  smug  associations  of  that  word 
called  a  "  caravan."  The  waggon  which  stood  in 
the  picture  was  my  waggon,  now  wintering  in  Farmer 
Twose's  barn.  Pre-war  bloom  was  still  upon  the 
green  paint  of  its  window-frames  and  the  snows  of 
1914  were  reflected  in  the  white  canvas  of  its  roof. 
The  woman  who  walked  by  the  side  of  this  visionary 
waggon  was  my  woman,  with  a  pre-war  poppy  in  her 
hair.  The  whip  in  her  hand  was  my  whip,  studded 
all  over  with  odds  and  ends  of  brass,  which  have 
accrued  to  it  in  pre-war  taverns  as  the  love-offerings 
of  other  and  more  honest  waggoners.  The  harness 
of  the  horse  was  my  harness,  shining  with  the  shine 
imparted  by  my  elbow.  But  the  horse  inside  this 
harness  ?  Here  was  my  mystery. 

Where  I  looked  for  a  white  horse,  slow-paced, 
deliberate,  and  of  more  than  military  age,  I  saw  a 
more  vigorous  animal,  thick-set  but  limber,  and 
having,  moreover,  a  somewhat  impudent  manner — 
the  manner  as  it  might  be  of  a  horse  who  looked  upon 
my  waggon  as  a  joke.  The  colour  of  this  horse  was 
not  white.  It  might  have  been  brown,  or  black,  or 
bay,  or  strawberry  roan.  It  might  have  been  any 
colour  you  please  to  think  of,  excepting  white.  It 
was  this  decided  quality  of  not  being  white  which 
made  me  perceive  so  clearly  that  the  horse  in  the 
waggon  was  not  my  horse — not  my  old  horse,  I 
mean.  That  animal  offered  unfailing  testimony  to 


A  JOKE  FOR  A  HORSE  89 

the  wisdom  of  Arabia ;  for  there  is  an  Arab  saying 
that  the  man  who  buyeth  a  young  wife  or  a  white 
horse  buys  trouble. 

Then,  as  I  sat  on  my  humble  stool  and  looked  at 
this  flickering  picture  of  the  familiar  waggon,  the 
flower-decked  woman  and  the  strange  horse,  it 
occurred  to  me  suddenly  to  remember  that  my  old 
white  horse  is  dead.  The  war  hay  killed  him,  and 
whatever  horse  comes  waggoning  with  us  again  will 
necessarily  be  a  stranger.  Then  I  thought  I  would 
shed  a  tear  for  the  old  white  horse,  but  reflected  that 
a  horse  who  had  lived  to  be  twenty-three,  and  had 
died  of  sheer  contempt  for  his  victuals,  did  not  merit 
the  memorial  tribute  of  a  strong  man's  tears.  So  I 
whistled  at  the  picture  in  the  fire,  got  up  gaily  from 
my  stool  and  took  down  the  brass-studded  whip  from 
its  rack.  Whistling  more  than  ever  I  carried  this 
whip  outside  my  cottage  door  to  clean,  and  as  I 
cleaned  it  my  whistling  became  excessive,  for  I  was 
thinking  of  the  fine  new  horse  I  mean  to  have. 

The  sun  was  on  view  out  of  doors,  and  a  wonder- 
fully good  sun  too,  for  November  ;  and,  while  I  was 
dabbing  on  the  brass-polish  and  blowing  out  the 
semibreves,  who  should  appear  upon  the  public 
road  but  old  Mr.  Rummery.  Mr.  Rummery,  who 
is  the  village  odd  man  and  gossip,  and  who  was 
evidently  on  his  way  to  avoid  some  job  of  work,  was 
attracted  by  my  whistling  and  stopped  at  the  gate. 
He  saw  the  whip  in  my  hand  and  the  smears  of 
brass-polish  on  my  forehead  and  made  suitable 
comments. 

"  Shoining  up  the  old  whip,  be  you  ?  "  said  Mr 


go  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

Rummery.     "  See  you  out  on  the  road  again  come 
April,  shouldn't  wonder  ?  " 

I  nodded.  Mr.  Rummery,  leaning  on  the  gate- 
post, stared  at  the  whip  and  manifested  his  approval, 
as  each  new  bit  of  brass  was  rescued  from  obscurity, 
by  a  quick  intaking  of  his  breath.  "  Hipff  !  Hipff  ! 
Hipff  !  "  breathed  Mr.  Rummery.  And  when  the 
last  bit  of  brass  was  brought  to  light,  I  added  the 
"  Hurray !  "  But  of  a  sudden  Mr.  Rummery 
looked  down  his  nose  and  his  eyelids  flickered — a 
sign  of  impending  speech — and  he  shook  his  head  and 
spoke,  in  tones  of  anxious  doubt. 

"  But  how  will  you  be  goon  an  for  waggoning," 
said  Mr.  Rummery,  "  now  as  you  have  lorst  old 
Three-Pun-Ten  ?  " 

Three-Pun-Ten  was  the  name  of  my  old  horse 
This  was  derived  from  the  circumstance  of  my  having 
bought  the  quadruped  at  public  auction  ;  an  incident 
which  in  its  monetary  aspect  has  clung  to  the  local 
memory.  I  answered  Mr.  Rummery 's  question  by 
saying  I  would  have  to  buy  another  horse. 

"  Ha  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Rummery,  "  but  you  will 
never  buy  a  horse  like  Three-Pun-Ten — not  for 
double  or  treble  the  money,  you  woon't." 

"  I  shall  buy  an  army  horse,"  I  said. 

"  What?  "  demanded  Mr.  Rummery,  "  one  of 
they  great  cavalry  gawks  ?  " 

This  was  not  the  kind  of  steed  I  had  in  mind.  I 
thought  of  something  small,  thick-set,  yet  limber. 
The  sort  of  animal  who  has  been  right  amongst  it 
with  a  water-cart.  A  silver-badged  horse  :  one  who 
has  had  some  gas,  for  preference.  I  explained  my 
requirements  to  Mr.  Rummery. 


A  JOKE  FOR  A  HORSE  91 

Mr.  Rummery  nodded  wisely.  "  Rackim  that 
sort  of  horse  'ull  goo  cheap,  do  ya  ?  " 

"  Cheap  or  dear  I  am  having  it,"  was  my  reply. 

Mr.  Rummery  looked  puzzled.  "  What's  the 
idea  ?  "  he  said. 

The  idea  was  difficult  to  express,  being  a  sort  of 
psychological  one.  However,  I  did  my  best  to 
explain  it  and  Mr.  Rummery  did  his  best  to  under- 
stand my  explanation. 

"  I  see,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  again  nodding 
his  head  :  "  you  waunts  for  to  benefit  the  animal. 
You  waunts  for  to  find  him  a  soft  job  like,  same  as  if 
he  was  a  discharged  soldier.  You  waunts  for  to 
make  a  pet  of  he." 

Now  this  is  not  at  all  what  I  "  waunts."  I  happen 
to  be  in  possession  of  a  tremendous  joke — this 
living-waggon — and  I  want  to  get  a  worthy  friend 
to  share  it.  A  horse  who  has  been  well  amongst  it — 
who  has  lost  some  friends  and  some  illusions,  but 
never  has  lost  heart ;  one  who  has  suffered  pain — 
is  the  kind  of  horse  I  want  to  share  my  joke  with  me. 

We  will  go  out  for  weeks  together,  the  woman  with 
the  poppies,  the  old  war-horse  and  I.  We  will 
dawdle  steadfastly  in  the  most  secret  lanes  where 
there  is  sun  and  shade  commingled.  There  will  be  a 
continual  absence  of  abrupt  noises.  The  only 
sounds  which  the  old  horse  is  often  going  to  hear 
will  be  the  welcome  trickle  of  the  springs  and  water 
splashes  and  the  morning  High  Mass  of  the  bees. 
There  will  be  continual  pauses  for  refreshment  and 
reflection,  when,  free  from  harness  and  halter,  he  will 
crop  his  full  of  no  man's  grass  along  the  wayside 
wastes. 


92  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

And  then  there  will  be  the  continual  jokes  ;  the 
fussy  mother-partridges  with  their  anxious  young, 
scurrying  to  the  hedgerow.  The  fat  policemen, 
too,  who  look  for  the  prescribed  particulars  on  the 
right-hand  side  of  our  dash-board  and  sorrowfully 
find  them  and  copy  them  out  into  note-books.  The 
astonished  old  people  who  stand  amongst  their  bee- 
hives in  the  cottage  gardens  and  are  so  glad  and  so 
surprised  to  see  us,  and  who  will  bring  out  pieces  of 
bread  for  the  old  war-horse  to  eat.  The  farmers, 
pursing  shrewd  mouths,  who  far  from  giving  any- 
thing to  horse  or  man  will  inevitably  refuse  to  let 
us  draw  into  their  fields.  Finally,  there  is  the  best 
joke  of  all — the  children,  boys  and  girls,  with  their 
following  of  sexless  toddlers,  who  will  dart  out  upon 
us  suddenly  at  all  odd  moments,  uttering  their 
delightful  cry  of  "  Oo  Er  !  The  Circus  !  " 

Then,  in  the  early  part  of  the  afternoon  when  the 
sun  is  growing  urgent,  we  shall  seek  and  find  our 
"  pitch  " — a  piece  of  wayside  grass,  remote  and 
shaded,  with  a  pond  at  hand  and  the  white-thorn  at 
full  blow.  When  we  have  found  this  admirable 
pitch — we  would  scorn  to  pick  a  worse  one — I  shall 
take  the  old  warrior  from  his  shafts  and  remove  the 
harness  from  him,  and  I  shall  rub  his  skin  down  with 
a  clean,  soft  cloth,  and  blow  a  little  on  his  warm,  wet 
ears.  I  shall  get  him  a  feed  of  good  oats,  mixed  well 
with  bran  and  chaff,  and  he  will  stand  and  sniff  about 
him,  whinnying  softly  while  this  repast  is  fabricated. 

By  the  time  the  old  war-horse  has  finished  his 
oats,  a  curl  of  smoke  will  be  issuing  from  the  waggon 
chimney,  and  somebody  inside  the  waggon  will  be 


A  JOKE  FOR  A  HORSE  93 

singing  softly  and  I  shall  sense  the  imminent  ap- 
proach of  eggs  and  bacon.  Then  I  shall  wink  at  the 
old  war-horse  and  the  old  war-horse  will  wink  at  me, 
and  at  this  moment  a  little  lump  of  thankfulness  will 
form  in  the  throat  of  man  and  horse.  As  the  old  lad 
will  by  now  have  quite  finished  his  oats,  I  shall  give 
him  a  smack  behind  and  speed  him  forth  to  graze  at 
no  man's  charge. 

All  this  I  explained  to  old  Mr.  Rummery,  who 
listened  patiently  and  then  said  : 

"  Thank  you,  sir.    Well :    I  will  be  getting  on." 


XI 

Stuck  to  the  Wire 


"  EXCUSE  my  '  gravy  eye,'  "  he  said.  "  I've  had 
some  gas."  He  was  a  soldier,  looking  for  Tea,  in  a 
wooden  hut,  at  a  Base  Camp,  in  France. 

This  soldier  infected  one  with  what  I  call  the 
"  mad  shepherd  feeling  "  :  a  feeling  which  imparts 
itself  to  imaginative  persons  who  get  mixed  up  with 
the  great  B.O.R.E.— i.e.  :  "  Brotherhood  Of  Re- 
ligious Endeavour." 

Having  become  identified  with  the  B.O.R.E.'s  you 
find  that  your  lot  in  life  is  to  stand  behind  an  enor- 
mous urn  and  distribute  fluids  (tea  when  tapes  are 
hanging  out  of  the  urn  and  coffee  when  they  aren't) 
to  a  ceaseless  procession  of  mud-coloured  sheep. 
They  "  baah  !  "  at  you. 

"  One  tea,"  they  say  :  "  one  bun  :  two  Wood- 
bines." 

"  Coffee,"  you  answer,  shortly  :  for  Time  is  Money 
at  the  B.O.R.E. 

"  Corfee,  then,"  they  say  :  "  and  one  bun,  two 
Woodbine." 

94 


STUCK  TO  THE  WIRE  95 

"  No  buns  !  "  You  jerk  this  out,  T.  being  M. 
"  Cut  cake  only." 

"  Cut  cake,  then,  and  two  Woodbine,"  baahs  the 
old  sheep. 

You  throw  these  commodities  at  him,  and  then 
concentrate  yourself  on  the  next  sheep,  who  baahs 
for  chocolate.  And  so  on — for  four  hours  or  so. 
On  they  come  :  a  continuous  procession  of  muddy 
sheep.  They  all  have  round  faces,  two  eyes,  and  a 
nose.  They  all  have  coughs  and  colds.  They 
"  baah  "  at  you  in  an  abrupt  and  uncouth  manner, 
saving  here  and  there  one,  who  has  the  tentative, 
apologetic,  indeterminate  baah  of  good  breeding. 

While  they  are  shuffling  up  and  baahing  about, 
one's  fellow  "  workers  "  go  among  them.  Older 
"  workers,"  such  as  Mr.  McBegg,  from  the  Island 
of  Egg — a  certified  Minister — keep  physical  order 
"  Take  your  turn,  please  :  take  your  turn.  Every- 
body will  be  served  in  turn."  Younger  "  workers," 
such  as  Mr.  Hosanner,  aged  nineteen,  from  the 
Theological  Institute  at  Cannock  Chase,  preserve 
the  spiritual  amenities.  Mr.  Hosanner  passes, 
rather  than  walks,  among  the  sheep,  exhorting  them 
to  be  pure. 

Mr.  Hosanner's  neatly  kept  black  clothing  is  lined 
with  inner  pockets,  from  which  repositories  he  con- 
tinually brings  forth  printed  "  pledge "  forms. 
These  forms  he  furtively  presses  upon  all  sheep  whose 
"  baahs  "  excite  his  trained  susceptibilities.  The 
signatory  of  such  a  document  is  thereby  bound  to 
abstain  from  committing  that  sin  which  Mr.  Hosan- 
ner, aged  nineteen,  pronounces  to  be  more  deadly 


96  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

than  all  the  other  sins  combined — such  other  sins 
comprising  drunkenness,  lying,  and  theft. 

Mr.  Hosanner  conducts  his  purifying  labours  with 
an  unfortunate  impartiality  which  one  day  will 
secure  for  him  such  a  bang  in  the  eye — or,  as  he 
himself  would  perhaps  prefer  to  express  it :  such  an 
unprovoked  assault — as  will  surprise  him  more  than 
any  event  which  has  hitherto  occurred  during  his 
nineteen  years  of  bland  endeavour. 

In  other  words,  Mr.  Hosanner  will  thrust  his 
detestable  pledge-form  into  the  face  of  one  old  sheep 
too  many.  His  impartial  habits  bring  him  much  into 
touch  with  middle-aged  and  married  sheep  :  sheep 
who  were  investigating  sin  before  that  impure 
event  was  even  contemplated  which  resulted  so 
conspicuously,  nineteen  years  ago,  in  the  earthly 
advent  of  Mr.  Hosanner. 

When  the  day  arrives  which  I  foresee  ;  when  Mr. 
Hosanner  has  been  hammered  out  of  conceit  with 
himself  by  some  offended  soldier,  old  enough  to  be 
his  father,  Mr.  Hosanner  will  perhaps  become 
dissociated  from  this  evangelising  movement  which 
is  being  conducted  in  France  by  public  subscription. 
Young  Mr.  Hosanner  will  then,  I  take  it,  return  to 
England — not  to  enlist,  for  he  has  a  conscientious 
objection  to  enlistment — but  to  do  further  good 
works.  Perhaps  he  will  then  teach  purity  to  his 
grandmother,  and  leave  off  nagging  British  soldiers 
on  active  service. 

But  to  return  to  our  sheep .  I  had  the  "  shepherd ' ' 
feeling  badly  that  day.  I  thought  that  they  were 
all  sheep :  uncomplaining,  helpless  sheep :  all 


STUCK  TO  THE  WIRE  97 

looking  alike,  all  making  the  same  noises  and  all 
wanting  the  same  things — food,  shelter,  company. 
And  I  was  one  of  several  shepherds,  who  went  com- 
placently among  them,  handing  out  lemons. 

Principal  Muckie  was  one  of  us  :  Principal  Muckie, 
of  Portobello,  Scotland.  An  improving  gentleman, 
having  "  r-r-r-r's  "  with  which  you  could  have  filed 
a  horse's  hoof.  He  lectured.  He  lectured  very 
loudly,  on  such  subjects  as  "  Primitive  Man,"  "  The 
Balkan  Problem,"  and  "  Masterpieces  of  Italian 
Architecture."  His  lectures  were  sometimes  inter- 
spersed with,  and  were  always  followed  by,  hymn 
and  prayer.  I  regarded  the  whole  combination — 
lectures,  lecturer,  hymns,  and  prayers — as  being 
rough  luck  on  the  British  Army :  as  being  an  un- 
chivalrous  thing  to  do  to  sheep  who  had  strayed  into 
your  hut  for  food,  shelter  and  company.  Particu- 
larly when  (as  was  always  done)  one  locked  all  the 
doors  on  them,  so  that  they  couldn't  get  out. 

Being  one  of  the  shepherds,  I  could  get  out,  through 
a  door  conveniently  placed  behind  my  counter. 
And  I  did  get  out,  not  wishing  to  become  mad  in 
fact  as  well  as  in  fancy,  which  evil  would  certainly 
have  befallen  me  if  I  had  had  to  stand  continuously 
in  a  dark,  breath-laden  hall,  while  Professor  Muckie 
drivelled  on,  and  the  British  Army  coughed  and 
coughed  and  coughed. 

It  was  after  one  of  Professor  Muckie's  lectures, 
when  that  learned  gentleman  had  described  minutely 
for  two  hours  a  journey  to  St.  Malo,  which  he  under- 
took in  the  year  1903,  that  I  became  conscious  of  the 
gravy-eyed  man. 

G 


98  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

I  was  standing  behind  the  counter  in  the  lecture 
hall,  having  been  instructed  to  "  carry  on  "  there, 
when  this  soldier  approached  and  bought  some 
picture  post-cards.  He  was  my  only  customer ; 
for  the  Professor  is  dry  work,  and  when  he  has  dried 
up,  and  the  communicating  doors  are  unlocked,  it  is 
customary  for  a  stampede  to  take  place  into  the 
refreshment  hall. 

"  I  tried  to  make  you  see  me,  an  hour  or  two  ago, 
when  you  were  behind  the  urn,"  said  the  soldier, 
"  but  I  couldn't  manage  to  get  you,  not  with  this  eye. 
I've  had  some  gas." 

"  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  At  Blitsam,  during  the  big  fight  in  August," 
answered  the  soldier.  "  That  place  where  the 
sunken  road  is." 

"  Why  did  you  want  me  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  I  heard  you  were  a  chap  that  knew  about  books 
and  I  wanted  you  to  recommend  me  a  book  out  of 
the  library  here.  And — and  I  wanted  you  to  take 
me  away  from  that  horrible  little  boy  who  works  the 
purity  stunt.  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  taking  a 
liberty,  but  you  look  like  a  chap  with  a  sense  of 
proportion.  I  mean  to  say,  you  would  draw  the 
line  at  a  boy  of  that  age  crawling  up  to  a  man  of  my 
age — the  father  of  two  kids,  I  am — and  talking 
through  his  hat,  in  a  luscious  whisper,  about — about 
things  which  don't  concern  him.  A  boy  of  that  age ! " 

"  How  do  you  come  to  be  one  of  the  Ayrshire 
Borderers  r  "  I  asked,  by  way  of  avoiding  a  public 
avowal  of  my  antipathies,  rather  than  to  satisfy  my 
curiosity — though  I  had  noticed  a  London  twang  in 


STUCK  TO  THE  WIRE  99 

this  soldier's  voice  :  a  matter  which  contrasted 
oddly  with  his  Highland  uniform. 

"  Swank,"  replied  the  soldier.  "  They  were 
recruiting  at  the  time,  and  /  was  enlisting,  and — well, 
I  fancied  myself  in  a  kilt,  and  so  did  my  wife.  I 
wonder  what  they'd  think  of  this  kilt.  Look  ! 

The  soldier,  who  had  all  this  time  been  mopping 
at  his  eyes  with  a  damp  handkerchief,  now  left  off 
doing  so,  in  order  to  lift  a  corner  of  his  kilt  and  bring 
it  closer  to  the  light.  A  brown  stain,  which  looked 
rather  like  an  emphasis  of  the  fabric's  natural  dun, 
was  spread,  in  patches,  over  it. 

"  That's  blood,  that  is,"  said  the  London  Ayr- 
shireman.  "  This  kilt  comes  off  some  chap  that's 
gone  west.  They  served  it  out  to  me  down  here  at 
the  base,  after  I  came  out  of  hospital,  when  they 
marked  me  '  T.B.'  My  own  kilt  was  fairly  done  in 
on  the  wire,  along  that  cursed  road.  I  can  see  that 
road  now,  and  that  wire,  with  all  the  brown  things 
hanging  on  it — hundreds  of  'em,  hanging  loose,  like 
scarecrows.  Hundreds  of  'em  ! 

"  That's  one  reason,"  continued  the  gravy-eyed 
soldier,  "  why,  if  ever  I  touch  Blighty  again,  I'll 
never  have  a  brown  thing  in  my  house — not  even 
tea  !  I'll  have  arty-green  furniture,  red  carpets,  and 
chess-board  curtains.  I  don't  want  ever  again  to  see 
the  colour  of  khaki,  or  anything  which  will  remind 
me  of  the  colour  of  khaki.  And  if  ever  I  catch  my 
nipper  playing  with  a  box  of  soldiers,  I'll — I'll  give 
him  a  dose  of  rat  poison,  and  end  it."  All  this  time 
the  soldier  was  dabbing  at  his  horrible  eye. 

"  Khaki !  "  he  ejaculated,  still  dabbing  at  the  eye, 


ioo  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  I  see  that  some  of  the  jolly  old  sportsmen  at  home 
are  still  sentimentalising  over  khaki.  '  The  sacred 
colour/  some  of  'em  call  it.  I  hope  they'll  keep  it 
sacred — out  of  sight — like  they  keep  their  God. 
There'll  be  a  general  rising  of  retired  soldiers  if  they 
put  much  of  it  in  the  windows.  It's  an  ugly, 
damned  colour,  anyhow,  but  if  it  was  as  lovely  as  a 
Dorothy  rose,  we'd  want  to  forget  it.  Anybody 
who's  seen  that  road  will,  anyhow."  More  dabs  at 
the  eye. 

"  That  road  !  "  he  exclaimed  :    "  and  that  wire  ! 

"  Imagine  it,  my  son  :  yards  and  yards  of  wire, 
miles  of  it,  for  all  that  anybody  could  see,  stretching 
all  along  the  road.  German  wire,  specially  made  for 
promoting  culture.  Spikes  a  full  inch  long  and  half 
the  thickness  of  your  finger.  And  sticking  to  them 
everywhere,  like  flies  on  gummy  paper,  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  limp  brown  blobs,  flapping  about  like 
scarecrows. 

"  Hundreds  of  'em.  (More  dabs.)  Hundreds  of 
brown  blobs,  stuck  to  the  wire,  like  socks  on  a 
clothes-line,  all  hanging  limp.  And  the  gas  coming 
up  in  clouds  and  the  shells  bursting. 

"  They  say  that  a  Cockney  would  joke  in  hell. 
Well,  I  must  be  a  proper  Cockney,  for  I  laughed  at 
one  thing  there.  I  laughed  at  one  of  those  limp 
blobs,  stuck  up  on  that  wire.  The  joke  about  it  was 
it  was  a  black  blob.  A  civilian  blob.  I  don't  know 
why  I  laughed,  but  I  did  laugh.  The  thing  was — 
what's  the  word  ?  '  incongruous.'  There  he  was, 
an  unfortunate,  neat  civilian,  in  a  black  suit,  and  a 
bowler  hat.  So  neat.  And  so  dead  ! 


STUCK  TO  THE  WIRE  101 

"  His  silly  black  reach-me-downs,"  continued  the 
soldier,  "  looked  so  conspicuous  among  the  blobs 
of  brown  that  he  might  as  well  have  been  dressed  in 
Aldershot  Red. 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  was  doing  there,  to  get 
himself  hung  up,  along  with  us,  I  can't  think  what 
he  was  doing.  Unless  .  .  .  Unless  ...  I 
wonder  !  Do  you  think  he  travelled  in  purity  ? 

"  You  people  bring  your  wares  pretty  close  to  the 
firing  line,  and — one  never  knows.  A  black  suit 
and  a  bowler  hat  ...  I  wonder  .  .  .  But 
he  was  dead.  Ha!" 


XII 

The  Fortunate  Boots 


THEY  cost  a  lot  of  money — at  least,  what  7  regard 
as  a  lot  of  money.  Rich  gentlemen,  who  buy  their 
boots  in  Conduit  Street,  would  probably  think  I  had 
bought  them  cheap.  All  that  I  have  to  say  is  that 
this  single  pair  of  boots  cost  me  as  much  as  I 
usually  pay  for  two  pairs  of  ordinary  boots. 

I  bought  them  because,  rather  than  in  spite,  of  the 
fact  that  they  were  inelegant.  They  were  called 
"  Watertight  Shooting  Boots  (guaranteed),"  and, 
although  what  I  wanted  was  a  foot-covering  rather 
than  a  gun,  I  bought  them  feeling  that  if  I  didn't 
load  them  they  wouldn't  necessarily  go  off  and  that 
their  guaranteed  antipathy  to  water  would  be  useful 
in  the  summer  time. 

I  have  now  to  report  that  these  boots,  regarded 
merely  as  boots,  have  justified  the  confidence  of  their 
manufacturer.  They  have,  furthermore,  surpassed 
my  own  expectations ;  for,  they  are  magic  boots. 
They  confer  fame  upon  their  wearer.  They  have 
conferred  fame  upon  me,  as  I  will  explain. 

103 


THE  FORTUNATE  BOOTS  103 

This  is  where  Kathleen  and  Bryan  come  in.  I 
don't  suppose  that  Kathleen  and  Bryan  will  ever 
read  what  I  am  writing  here,  but  I  kiss  my  hand  to 
them.  I  don't  suppose  that  Kathleen  and  Bryan 
will  ever  see  my  boots  again,  or  that  I  shall  ever  see 
Kathleen  and  Bryan  again.  But  I  kiss  my  hand  to 
them. 

Kathleen  is  Bryan's  sister  and  Bryan  is  Kathleen's 
brother.  And  Kathleen  is  ten  years  old  and  Bryan 
is  nearly  eight.  And  Kathleen  wears  a  blue  frock 
and  a  dirt-proof  overall,  and  her  hair  (which  is  hazel- 
nut  colour)  in  a  prolonged  and  undulating  kink. 
She  has  blue  eyes  and  a  freckled  face,  and  she 
continually  asks  questions.  Bryan  has  dark  hair 
and  a  nose  inclining  upward.  He  wears  a  "go-any- 
where "  of  knitted  brown  stuff  and  short  knicker- 
bockers which  tear.  He  stands  up  to  the  bowling 
of  boys  considerably  taller  than  himself,  and  he 
continually  asks  questions. 

Both  Kathleen  and  Bryan,  together  with  super- 
visors, inhabited  (temporarily)  a  cottage  in  North 
Wales.  I,  together  with  certain  supervisory  factors, 
inhabited  (also  temporarily)  an  adjacent  cottage. 
And  in  close  proximity  to  both  our  cottages  there 
runs  a  rivulet — a  dancing,  shallow,  laughing,  jump- 
ing, scoffing,  singing  stream,  having  its  glittering 
surface  freely  adorned  with  large  stones  or  miniature 
rocks.  High  hills,  sometimes  bare,  unfertile,  rocky, 
and  aloof,  sometimes  green  and  generous  or  tall  and 
elegant,  being  powdered  white  with  mayflower, 
bound  this  stream  upon  her  either  bank.  She  does 
not  appear  to  notice  it,  however,  but  goes  on  iust 


104  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

the  same,  quick  and  dainty,  but  very  cold  in  summer 
time,  rushing,  and  occasionally  bursting  things  in 
winter.  The  Romans  found  this  rivulet  in  B.C. 
something,  and  erected  walls  and  pediments,  the 
ruins  of  which  are  still  to  be  seen,  for  the  purpose 
of  subduing  her.  She  still  continues,  however : 
still  laughs,  still  leaps,  still  sings  her  cold,  cold  songs. 
And  the  Romans  have  gone  away  ;  they  have  been 
"  gone  away  "  for  a  very  long  time. 

Well,  this  little  river  is  worth  knowing,  and  that  is 
the  reason  why  one  hires  cottages  upon  her  banks. 

On  the  evening  of  the  first  day  of  hiring,  one 
naturally  visits  these  banks  and  gazes  fondly  at 
the  mocking  rivulet  itself.  And  whilst  one  gazes 
who  should  heave  in  sight  but  Kathleen  and  Bryan. 

What  do  Kathleen  and  Bryan  do  ?  They  stare  with 
wonder  at  one's  unkempt  person — for  one  has 
travelled  two  hundred  and  thirty  miles  by  horse-cab, 
railway  train,  and  motor-bus  in  order  to  reach  this 
rivulet — and  they  look  with  palpable  contempt  at 
one's  watertight  shooting  boots,  which  are  heavy, 
ill-shapen,  and  dusty.  And  then  they  go  their  ways. 

Very  well.  One  waits.  Minutes  and  hours  elapse. 
A  night  elapses.  One  awakes  at  lark-crow  fresh  and 
curious.  One  gets  up.  One  washes,  prays,  and 
subsequently  clothes  oneself.  One  doesn't  forget 
the  watertight  boots.  One  then  goes  down — for 
then  is  nothing  else  to  go  down  to — one  then  goes 
down  to  the  mocking  rivulet.  And  while  one  stands 
upon  her  rock-strewn  bank,  watching  the  little  trout 
and  other  edibles  which  leap  about  her  rock-strewn 
bosom,  who  should  again  appear  but  Kathleen  and 
Bryan 


THE  FORTUNATE  BOOTS  105 

Kathleen  and  Bryan  again  direct  a  quick,  con- 
temptuous glance  at  one's  watertight  boots.  One 
tries  to  seem  unconcerned  about  this  and  yet  to 
appear  of  friendly  disposition.  These  are  difficult 
and  complicated  things  to  express  both  at  one  time, 
and  one  nearly  dislocates  one's  mouth  in  the  effort. 
But  Kathleen  and  Bryan  do  not  seem  to  notice  it ; 
they  continue  to  stare  abstractedly  at  one's  boots, 
and  Kathleen,  sucking  in  her  lips,  makes  shishy 
noises. 

Now,  when  a  fellow,  at  the  risk  of  a  permanent 
malformation  of  his  mouth,  addresses  looks  of 
friendly  disposition  towards  a  girl  like  Kathleen, 
and  all  which  that  lady  does  in  return  is  to  make 
shishy  noises  at  his  boots,  there  is  only  one  step  which 
a  fellow  can  take,  and  I  took  it.  I  flung  myself 
into  the  mocking  rivulet. 

I  am  a  bad  jumper  (especially  when  those  boots 
have  been  clamped  in  place)  and  no  diver  ;  and  I 
therefore  would  not,  even  for  gold,  have  had  you 
deceived  into  the  belief  that  I  really  jumped  or  dived 
into  the  stream.  What  I  did  was  to  walk,  with  some 
deliberation,  about  the  surface  of  the  stream, 
stepping  from  rock  to  rock,  in  the  course  of  which 
process  my  wonderful  boots  became  partially  or 
wholly  submerged.  This — if  I  may  thus  colloquially 
express  myself —  this  did  it ! 

Kathleen  immediately  left  off  shishing.  Bryan  at 
once  desisted  from  his  derogatory  occupation  of 
making  funny  faces.  Both  young  people  regarded 
me,  as  it  were,  with  an  awakened  interest :  with 
attention,  with  excitement,  with  wonder.  Kathleen 
spoke.  She  said  : 


io6  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  I  say.     You'll  get  your  feet  wet,  won't  you  ?  " 

This  being  the  question  which  I  had  reckoned  to 
elicit,  I  was  prepared  with  the  reply.  I  uttered  it 
carelessly.  "  No,"  I  said  ;  "  my  feet  will  keep  quite 
dry.  These  are  watertight  boots." 

There  was  a  long,  incredulous  pause.  Then  Bryan 
spoke.  He  said  : 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  can  stand  in  the  water, 
the  same  as  you  are  doing,  and  yet  your  feet  will 
keep  quite  dry  ?  " 

"  Quite  dry,"  I  repeated. 

Kathleen  left  off  shishing  and  came  closer  to  the 
wet :  closer  and  closer  still,  until  the  point  of  her 
sandalled  foot  was  almost  touching  the  damp  rocks. 
She  looked  at  me  with  large,  intelligent,  and  ap- 
proving eyes.  She  spoke : 

"  How  long  can  you  stand  there  without  them 
getting  wet  ?  " 

"  All  day,"  I  said. 

Kathleen  eyed  me  thoughtfully.  Then  she  spoke 
again  : 

"  There  are  some  wetter  stones  on  the  other  side 
of  the  bridge.  Do  come  and  try  those  stones." 

So  I  went  and  I  tried.  The  trial  was  completely 
successful.  Kathleen  and  Bryan  became  extremely 
agitated  with  pleasure,  admiration,  and  approval. 
I  was  a  made  man,  as  the  saying  goes. 

They  took  me  to  their  cottage  and  introduced  me 
to  Bryan's  mother  and  Kathleen's  father.  They 
said  : 

"  This  is  Mr. — Mr. — well,  we  don't  know  his  name 
but  he  is  living  next  door,  at  Mrs.  Williams's  cottage, 


THE  FORTUNATE  BOOTS  107 

and  he  can  stand  in  the  water  for  hours  and  hours 
and  hours,  and  his  feet  will  keep  quite  dry,  because 
his  boots  are  watertight.  Those  are  the  boots  he's 
wearing  now.  And  Bryan  wants  a  pair  the  same  as 
his,  and  so  do  I.  And  you  ought  to  have  a  pair, 
daddy,  and  then  you  could  stand  in  the  water  for 
hours  and  hours  and  hours  and  your  feet  will  not  get 
wet." 

"  A  good  idea,"  responded  daddy.  "  In  the  mean- 
time, Mr. — Mr. " 

"  Boots  1  "  I  interjected. 

"  In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Boots,  will  you  have  a 
cigar  ?  " 

I  would  and  I  did. 

All  that  day  I  walked  about  the  riverside  with 
Kathleen  and  Bryan.  We  played,  intermittently, 
at  all  the  games  which  are  known  in  North  Wales  ; 
but  mostly  and  primarily  we  talked  about  boots. 
And  Kathleen  and  Bryan,  who  had  lived  in  their 
cottage  for  a  month  and  were  therefore  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  chief  people  of  the  neighbourhood, 
would  take  me  up  to  people — mixed  people  :  lead- 
miners,  publicans,  a  sawmiller,  a  curate — and  they 
would  say : 

"  This  is  Mr. — Mr. — Mr. — we  don't  know.  But 
he's  got  a  splendid  pair  of  boots.  Just  look  at  them. 
He  can  stand  in  the  river  for  hours  and  hours  and 
hours  but  his  feet  won't  get  wet.  They  are  shooting 
boots." 

And  the  mixed  people  all  smiled,  and  sometimes 
they  gave  me  cigars. 

Is  it  any  wonder,  then,  that  I  here  celebrate  my 
possession  of  these  Fortunate  Boots  ? 


io8  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

Every  morning  early,  Kathleen  and  Bryan  would 
come  to  the  door  of  the  cottage  which  I  temporarily 
inhabited,  and  they  would  say  : 

"  Please  will  you  tell  Mr. — Mr. — Please,  will  you 
tell  the  man  with  the  boots  that  we  have  got  up  and 
we  are  waiting  for  him." 

And  all  day  long,  throughout  my  whole  fortnight, 
I  played  about  the  banks  of  that  mocking  rivulet 
with  Kathleen  and  Bryan.  Kathleen's  hand  was 
mine  for  the  holding,  and  I  lent  my  boots  to  Bryan. 
And  I  achieved  great  honour. 

For  standing  there,  impervious,  amid  the  clammy 
tresses  of  that  enchantress  who  had  resisted  all  the 
wiles  of  Rome  I  would  listen  to  the  honeyed  voice  of 
Kathleen,  adjuring  all  chance-comers  to  wait  and 
watch. 

"  This  is  our  friend,  Mr. — Mr. — I  don't  know. 
But  his  boots  are  watertight.  He  can  stand  in  the 
river  for  hours  and  hours  and  hours  and  his  feet 
will  not  get  wet !  " 

The  chance-comers  stopped,  and  stared  respect- 
fully. Kathleen  would  then  give  me  caramels, 
and  her  hand  to  hold. 

Oh,  fortunate,  fortunate  boots  ! 


XIII 

The  German  from  "  Perhaps 


[Period,   the   autumn   of   1917.    Scene,   a  railway 

train.] 

WE  slowed  down  at  Matcham  Halt — an  irregular  act, 
and,  therefore,  quite  unprecedented  in  the  ordered 
history  of  the  6.15.  Wonder  and  interest  were 
displayed  by  my  fellow-passengers. 

The  6.15  (p.m.)  is  what  they  call  a  "  motor-train." 
It  is  not  a  train  at  all,  in  the  true  sense  of  that  word, 
but  a  single,  self-propulsive  carriage  :  choo-choo  in 
front ;  milk  and  passengers  behind.  Its  passenger 
accommodation  consists  of  one  long  compartment, 
looking  rather  like  a  battered  Pullman  car  and  devoid 
of  privacy  like  a  Pullman  car  ;  though  lacking  some- 
what in  the  comfort  of  Mr.  Pullman's  own  authentic 
products. 

In  a  motor-train  you  can  see  everybody  else  and 
hear  everybody  else  ;  and  so  I  both  saw  and  heard 
the  excitement  created  by  our  call  at  Matcham  Halt. 
We  opened  all  our  windows  and  put  out  heads  and 
exchanged  opinions  about  this  unusual  event.  The 

109 


no  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

opinion  first  put  forward,  and  at  first  generally 
accepted,  was  that  the  London  express  was  late. 
There  was  a  lifting  of  eyebrows  at  this,  and  a  sucking 
in  of  breath.  And  animated  dialogue. 

FIRST  PASSENGER  :  "  You  don't  never  say  that, 
Mr.  Brown !  " 

SECOND  PASSENGER  :  "  I  do  indeed,  though,  Peter. 
There's  a  signal  be  down,  'tall  events." 

THIRD  PASSENGER  :  "  My  opinion  'tis  cattle 
strayed  across." 

FOURTH  PASSENGER  :    "  Or  a  breakdown." 

His  SON  :  "  Hey,  father,  I  say,  what  ?  Do  you 
reely  think  it  is,  father  ?  Is  it  reely  a  breakdown  ? 
Hey  !  Hoo  !  Hey  !  " 

FIRST  PASSENGER  :  "  D'ye  think,  Mr.  Brown,  'tis 
a  stoppage — out  Newhaven  way  ?  I  did  hear  them 
things  was  over  again  larse  night  ?  " 

SECOND  PASSENGER  :  "  Depend  upon  it,  that's 
one  thing  if  'taren't  another,  Peter.  There's  a 
signal  be  down,  'tall  events." 

There  were  a  few  passengers  in  the  carriage  who 
kept  aloof  from  these  speculations  and  researches. 
They  occupied  the  adjoining  seats  to  mine,  and  I 
was  struck  by  their  composure  and  indifference. 

One  of  these  neutrals  was  a  clergyman.  He  was  a 
clergyman  of  the  agricultural  type,  ruddy  gilled. 
He  smelled  of  ferrets  and  was  reading  a  paper  about 
goats.  Next  to  him  there  sat  a  pale-eyed,  beerless 
man,  having  no  particular  colour.  He  was  reading 
a  paper  called  "  The  Lamp."  Opposite  to  these  two 
(for  the  seats  in  a  "  motor-train  "  are  arranged  in 
little  sets  of  four)  a  middle-aged  woman  was  seated 


THE  GERMAN  FROM  "  PERHAPS  "  in 

by  the  side  of  a  younger  woman — evidently  her 
daughter.  She  was  an  unobtrusive  woman,  with  a 
tired  mouth.  It  was  the  mouth  of  one  who  hoped 
against  all  hope  to  find  a  bit  of  cheese  or  bacon 
somewhere.  Her  daughter  was  wearing  a  new  hat, 
of  the  largest  possible  diameter,  and  this  object, 
which  required  continual  adjustment,  absorbed  the 
whole  of  her  attention. 

It  was  amusing  to  contrast  the  apathy  of  this 
group  with  the  animation  of  the  others.  I  looked 
again  at  the  farmers  and  cowmen,  who  were  pressing 
round  the  windows.  They  were  still  gaping,  still 
arguing.  Then,  with  a  galvanic  suddenness,  the 
whole  situation  was  reversed. 

One  of  the  investigators  saw  something,  and 
announced  what  he  saw  in  a  tone  of  boredom  and 
disappointment.  His  companions,  looking  also 
bored  and  disappointed,  at  once  returned  to  their 
seats,  and  resumed  the  humdrum  of  existence, 
reverting  to  their  interminable,  passionless  dis- 
cussions about  tegs  and  heifers.  But  the  smaller 
group  now  became  animated.  Clergyman,  beer- 
hater,  mother  and  daughter — all  stared  out  of  the 
window  with  wonder  and  interest.  For  the  dis- 
appointed man,  who  was  now  seated,  had  stirred 
their  curiosity. 

"  Why,"  he  had  said,  "  it's  on'y  some  Huns,  arter 
all !  Half  a  dozen  German  prisoners  :  that's  all 
we're  stoppin'  f or  !  " 

And  sure  enough  it  was  all.  The  Germans  could 
be  seen  now,  tramping  up  the  wooden  steps  which 
gave  access  to  the  little  platform.  They  were 


112  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

marching,  heavy-footed,  from  their  work  in  the 
fields. 

There  were  five  Germans.  Four  of  them  were  dull 
fellows  enough  ;  clodhoppers  ;  lumps  ;  dressed  in  a 
torn  and  shabby  uniform,  to  which  their  captors 
had  added  scarlet  patches — squares  and  triangles. 
But  the  fifth  German  was  by  way  of  being  a  younger 
and  smarter  man.  He  wore  a  smarter  uniform  and  a 
contented  smile. 

The  prisoners,  led  by  their  escort,  entered  our 
carriage.  The  escort  consisted  of  one  corpulent 
private  :  an  elderly  man,  with  a  touch  of  asthma 
and  a  fixed  bayonet.  He  led  his  captives  to  the 
far  end  of  the  carriage  where,  I  now  noticed,  some 
seats  had  been  fenced  off  with  a  piece  of  cord.  The 
old  Reservist  withdrew  this  cord  and  the  prisoners 
sat  down.  When  they  were  all  seated,  he  sat  down 
too.  Then  the  train  moved  off,  and  the  clergyman 
spoke. 

"  They  look  healthy  enough,"  he  remarked. 
"  Bursting  with  health.  Get  better  food  here  than 
they  ever  got  at  home.  We  treat  these  chaps  too 
well — too  well,  sir!"  He  addressed  himself  to  the 
man  with  the  beerless  eye. 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  replied  that  individual. 
"  I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all.  It  is  our  duty  to 
behave  well  to  all  the  victims  of  this  unfortunate 
war." 

This  statement  surprised  the  clergyman.  On  the 
face  of  it,  it  was  a  reasonable  and  an  honest  state- 
ment, but  yet  it  was  not  uttered  in  a  reasonable 
voice  nor  had  the  beerless  one  an  honest  face.  The 


THE  GERMAN  FROM  "  PERHAPS  "    113 

beerless  one  struck  me  as  having  the  face  of  one 
skilled  in  argument. 

The  clergyman  looked  at  the  beerless  one  with 
disfavour,  and  opened  his  mouth.  Then,  remember- 
ing he  was  a  clergyman,  he  shut  it  again.  So  the 
beerless  one  continued  : 

"  If,"  he  mused,  "  the  German  Kayser  could  hear 
these  hypocritical  remarks  being  passed  he  would 
smile,  sir.  After  all  the  fuss  we  made  about  Witten- 
burg  !  No,  sir  !  If  we  expect  the  Germans  to  show 
favour  to  our  men  we  must  be  particular  not  to  pass 
insulting  remarks  about  them." 

"  Passed  no  insulting  remarks  at  all,  sir,"  protested 
the  clergyman.  "  Said  the  men  were  too  well 
treated.  I  stick  to  that.  I  repeat  it." 

"  The  brave  men  you  refer  to,"  replied  the  gentle- 
man whom  Nature  had  deprived  of  beer,  "  have 
mothers  and  sisters  and  sweethearts  in  Germany, 
just  as  our  own  unhappy  conscripts  have  dependants 
here.  I  appeal  to  this  lady  opposite  :  a  mother  is  a 
mother,  is  she  not :  a  sister  is  a  sister,  is  she  not ; 
a  sweetheart  is  a  sweetheart,  is  she  not,  all  the  world 
over  ?  Is  she  not  ?  " 

The  lady  opposite,  being  thus  appealed  to,  burst 
into  tears,  and  brought  forth  from  her  handbag  two 
butter-cards,  her  son,  her  nephew,  her  brother,  her 
brother's  wife's  brother,  and  her  eldest  daughter's 
young  man.  The  clergyman  gave  these  portraits 
his  sympathetic  attention,  but  the  devotee  of  water 
had  evidently  no  use  for  family  sentiment  outside 
the  sphere  of  pure  argument,  and  he  waved  the 
pictures  aside  as  he  resumed  his  remarks. 

H  * 


H4  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  Look  at  that  poor  German  over  there,"  he  said: 
"  the  very  young  one,  in  the  new  uniform."  We 
looked,  all  of  us,  including  the  Lady-Opposite's 
daughter,  who  turned  right  round,  hat  and  all.  The 
young  German  was  looking  at  us  with  a  thoughtful 
and  benevolent  expression.  The  other  Germans 
were  gazing  at  the  floor.  Their  guardian  was  having 
asthma. 

"  That  young  German,"  resumed  our  Instructor, 
"  may  come  from  some  beautiful  old-world  town, 
like  I  have  seen  myself,  in  his  beautiful  native 
country.  As  he  sits  there,  perhaps  he  is  thinking 
of  some  quaint  old  house,  with  a  carved  doorway  and 
a  paved  courtyard  in  which  a  grey-haired  mother 
sits  and  thinks  of  him.  (Gulps  from  lady  opposite). 
Or  perhaps  he  is  thinking  of  some  fair  field  in  the 
Rhine-country.  He  may  be  dreaming  of  some 
beautiful  maiden  who  walks  between  the  vines  and 
dreams  of  him.  Or,  perhaps,  he  is  thinking  of  some 
quiet  little  cottage  in  the  mountains  close  beside 
a  waterfall.  And  there  a  little  fair-haired  sister  has 
tamed  a  blackbird,  and " 

"  Brighton  !  Brighton  Central !  All  change  'ere  ! 
Brighton  !  " 

We  had  reached  our  destination  :  an  event  which 
completely  interfered  with  the  Professor's  further 
"  perhapses."  The  German  prisoners  and  their 
escort  stumped  out  of  the  carriage. 

We  stood  by  the  window  and  watched  them  set 
off  up  the  platform,  Asthma  leading.  Then  we  saw 
the  very  young  German,  the  pilgrim  from  "  Perhaps," 
run  forward  and  tap  the  old  invalid's  shoulder. 


THE  GERMAN  FROM  "  PERHAPS  "  115 

"  Alf,  Alf  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  you  are  taking  us 
wrong.  It's  Platform  Three  we  want." 

Old  Alf  turned  round,  scratching  his  head  and 
coughing.  "  Are  you  sure,  boy  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Sure  ?  "  repeated  the  German  from  "  Perhaps" 
— "  not  half !  Why,  I  used  to  hold  a  '  season  '  on 
this  line." 


XIV 

St.  Winefride's  Shrine 


THIS  is  the  testimony  of  one  who  has  witnessed  the 
Miracle  of  the  Blood. 

The  Miracle  of  the  Blood  is  to  be  examined  by  the 
curious  and  proved  by  the  devout  at  all  times  of  the 
day  by  the  shrine  and  Holy  Well  of  St.  Winefride,  in 
Wales. 

In  a  certain  "  Pilgrim's  Manual,"  published  with 
the  approbation  of  the  Lord  Bishop  of  Meneria,  it  is 
written  that : 

"  Holy  well  has  been  long  famous  for  its  shrine  of 
St.  Winefride  and  its  Holy  Well,  the  healing  waters 
of  which  have  brought  back  health  and  strength  to 
the  sick  and  ailing ;  and,  no  doubt,  many  are  the 
spiritual  favours  that  have  been  obtained  from  God 
through  the  intercession  of  this  great  Saint.  The 
record  of  miracles  worked  at  this  shrine  goes  back  to 
the  beginning  of  the  twelfth  century,  and  in  former 
times  Holywell  was  a  favourite  resort  of  pilgrims  of 
all  classes.  .... 

"  In  the  preface  to  the  Life  of  St.  Winefride  are 
116 


ST.  WINEFRIDE'S  SHRINE  117 

found  these  words  :  '  It  seems  certain  that  Divine 
Providence  designs  the  marvellous  cures  so  con- 
stantly occurring  at  St.  Winefride's  Well  to  bring 
back  many  to  the  Church  of  their  forefathers.'  That 
this  may  be  the  case  should  be  the  earnest  prayer  of 
all  who  visit,  the  shrine.  Let  them  pray  often  : 
'  St.  Winefride,  most  admirable  virgin,  even  in  this 
unbelieving  generation  still  miraculous,  pray  for 
England.'  " 

There  are  two  wells  of  St.  Winefride — a  little  and 
a  greater  well.  Within  the  greater  well  is  situated 
St.  Beuno's  stone,  which  possesses  extraordinary 
powers  of  healing.  The  little  well  is  surmounted  by 
carven  pillars  and  surrounded  by  beautiful  old  walls, 
upon  which  are  displayed,  in  great  profusion, 
crutches  and  trusses  and  spinal  supports  and  leg- 
irons — all  of  which  objects  have  been  deposited  there 
by  pious  pilgrims  as  a  testimony  to  the  mercy  of  God 
and  the  beneficence  of  St.  Winefride  and  as  a  rebuke 
to  doctors,  carpenters,  and  smiths. 

It  is  at  the  south  end  of  the  great  well  that  you 
may  behold  the  Miracle  of  the  Blood.  This  part  of 
the  well  is  framed  with  woodwork,  upon  the  surface 
of  which  great  oily  bubbles  may  be  seen  by  all.  If 
you  hold  your  hand  within  the  water,  and  with 
persistence,  patience,  and  earnestness  recite  the 
prayer  of  St.  Winefride,  these  bubbles  will  some- 
times form  in  great  black  clots  upon  your  fingers  : 
and  they  are  then  said  to  be  the  blood  of  St. 
Winefride,  the  presence  of  which  is  a  sign  that  you 
are  to  be  cured  of  deformity  or  disease 

These  are  the  words  of  the  prayer  to  St.  Winefride: 


n8  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

St.  Winefride,  who  for  so  many  centuries  hast 

shown  favour  to  pilgrims  in  this  place  of  thy 

martyrdom — pray  for  us. 

An  indulgence  of  sixty  days,  applicable  to  the 
souls  in  Purgatory,  and  granted  by  Pope  Leo  the 
Thirteenth,  may  be  gained  once  a  day  by  all  who 
with  contrite  heart  shall  venerate  the  relic  of  St. 
Winefride,  and  repeat  the  foregoing  prayer. 

The  relic  of  St.  Winefride  consists  of  the  finger- 
bone  of  that  virgin  martyr,  which  is  contained  within 
a  silver  box. 

Five  young  factory  girls,  all  kneeling  in  a  row, 
were  praying  for  the  Blood  at  twelve  o'clock  the 
other  morning.  One  of  them  was  blind.  One  had  a 
deformed  hip.  Two  others  were  lame.  Other 
cripples  and  many  stout  women  sat  on  benches 
behind  them,  urging  them  to  pray,  to  keep  praying, 
to  have  faith.  After  a  long,  long  time  a  sign  was 
vouchsafed  to  one  of  them. 

"  It  has  come  !  "  the  girl  cried  out.  "  Oh,  tears 
of  Mary  !  it  has  come  to  me.  Mother — look  !  " 

One  of  the  stout  old  women  rose  from  her  seat  and 
crouched  down  on  the  sopping  flagstones  beside  her 
daughter.  The  rest  of  us,  crippled  and  hale,  so 
many  as  could  find  room,  crowded  round  the  girl, 
whose  fellow-penitents  never  left  off  praying.  On 
the  girl's  third  finger  a  thick,  black  clot  had  formed, 
and  had  fashioned  itself,  strangely  enough,  into  the 
appearance  of  a  signet  ring. 

"  Oh,  the  dear  Blood  !  "  cried  the  girl.  "  Oh, 
mother — look  !  It  has  come  to  me  !  " 

"God  bless  ye  !  "  said  the  mother. 


ST.  WINEFRIDE'S  SHRINE  119 

Another  woman  said  : 

"  Th'art  a  good  lass,  Bridget.  Th'ast  tried  hard 
for  this.  Thee  shall  be  cured  for  certain  sure.  See 
if  thee  shalln't." 

"  But  nothing  don't  ail  her,"  said  another  woman. 
"  That's  the  awkwardness  of  it.  That  blind  girl 
yonder,  she's  tried  for  the  dear  Blood  all  morning, 
but  it  hasn't  never  come  to  her,  poor  lamb." 

"  How  do  you  know  what  ails  her  ?  "  cried 
Bridget's  mother,  wrathfully.  "  A  person  ain't 
got  to  be  a  cripple  to  be  ill.  A  person  may  have 
indigestion,  or  cramp,  or  annything.  A  person 
ain't  got  to  show  it  to  be  ill.  God  bless  the  dear 
Blood,  I  say.  Pray,  Bridget — pray  !  " 

"  Look  there  !  "  cried  somebody,  suddenly.  "Look 
there,  at  Kathleen's  hand  !  " 

Kathleen  was  the  blind  girl,  and,  looking  at  her 
hand,  we  beheld  a  great  black  dot  which  had  formed 
itself  on  her  first  finger. 

"  Kathleen,  Kathleen,"  cried  the  girl  who  knelt 
next  to  her.  "  It  has  come  to  you.  Oh,  my  dear, 
it's  come  to  you.  Ccme  quickly,  all  of  you,  and 
look  at  Kathleen's  hand." 

Kathleen  began  to  cry. 

"  Why  it's  shaped  like  a  heart,"  said  one  of  the 
women.  At  which  all  the  women,  save  one,  knelt 
down  and  prayed. 

Then  Kathleen's  mother,  assisted  by  other  women, 
pulled  Kathleen  to  her  feet.  Kathleen  could  not 
rise  without  help,  because  her  legs  had  gone  dead, 
she  having  knelt  in  constant  prayer  and  supplication 
for  three  hours  on  the  wet,  wet  flagstones. 

Kathleen  lay  on  the  wooden  seat  beside  her  mother 


120  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

kissing  her  mother's  face  and  crying,  while  the 
mother  bathed  her  daughter's  eyes  with  water  from 
the  Holy  Well  and  comforted  her,  saying  :  "Oh,  the 
dear  Blood,  the  precious  Blood  !  God  bless  the  dear 
Blood  !  Ye'll  get  ye're  sight  back  now  for  certain 
sure." 

The  woman  who  had  pointedly  refrained  from 
praying  with  the  other  women,  and  who  wore  an 
expression  of  enlightenment  and  smelt  of  carbolic 
soap,  now  spoke.  She  carried  in  her  hand  a  little 
dry  stick  with  which  she  tickled  the  surface  of  the 
precious  water.  She  said  : 

"  It  isn't  blood  at  all.  It's  bubbles.  See — I've 
got  one  at  the  end  of  my  stick." 

The  stout  women  crowded  round  and  reasoned 
with  her.  "  Look  at  it,"  cried  one.  "  What  can't 
speak  can't  lie.  It's  as  black  as  a  piece  of  liver 
that's  been  kept  too  long.  It  must  be  blood." 

They  conducted  her  to  the  little  well  and  showed 
her  the  crutches  and  other  trophies  which  adorned 
its  walls  and  pillars.  "  What  can't  speak  can't  lie," 
they  said,  again.  And  they  related,  with  detail, 
the  history  of  many  recent  miracles.  They  told 
her  how  only  two  days  previously  a  little  girl  with 
curvature  of  the  spine  had  been  completely  cured 
by  one  immersion,  saying  to  her  mother  as  she 
entered  the  water :  "  Oh,  mother,  I  can  walk  !  " 
They  showed  her  the  actual  crutches  and  supports 
which  this  child  had  left  behind  her.  They  told  her 
of  a  woman  having  cancer  who  had  that  morning 
entered  the  well,  and  from  whose  bosom  the  sickness 
had  immediately  departed,  falling  from  her  in  the 
shape  of  a  silver  ring. 


ST.  WINEFRIDE'S  SHRINE  121 

In  the  meantime,  many  grievous  cripples  had 
seated  themselves  by  the  little  well  in  preparation 
for  the  regular  morning  service,  which  was  shortly 
to  take  place. 

A  man  cripple,  whose  lower  limbs  were  wholly 
paralysed,  was  carried  in  on  a  litter.  One  of  the 
girl  cripples  who  was  just  able  to  walk  dragged  her- 
self up  to  make  room  for  him  on  the  cripples'  bench. 

The  man  cripple  said  that  he  had  bathed  three 
times  :  that  the  icy  water  gave  him  great  pain, 
and  that  the  last  time  he  thought  he  would  have 
fainted  because  of  a  feeling  like  red-hot  swords 
thrust  in  the  sensitive  parts  of  his  body.  The  other 
cripples  comforted  him  and  told  him  to  have  courage. 

"  You  never  know  when  the  favour  will  be  granted 
you,  "  they  said.  "  You  simply  have  to  persevere." 

"  Cert'nly,"  assented  the  man  cripple.  "  And 

besides I've  been  a  great  villain  in  me 

time." 

Of  all  the  people  in  that  place,  those  who  com- 
ported themselves  most  chivalrously  towards  the 
cripples  were — the  other  cripples.  Those  crouching 
women,  blind,  or  hunched,  or  aged,  as  the  case  might 
be,  were  kinder  and  more  cheerful  than  all  the  lusty 
wives  one  met  upon  the  road  outside. 

The  most  painful  little  figure  of  them  all  was  that 
of  a  young  girl  whose  hand  was  all  twisted  by  some 
dreadful  rheumatic  complaint.  She  had  had  the 
Holy  Blood  upon  it  many  times  :  she  had  laved  it  in 
the  icy  waters  day  after  day,  hour  after  hour.  She 
had  told  her  beads  unceasingly,  and  was  telling  them 
now.  But  still  her  hand  was  twisted. 


122  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

A  woman  said  : 

"  Ee  !  I  do  wish  as  that  poor  lass  theer  could  get 
a  cure.  She's  a  good  lass.  Many's  been  cured  as 
haven't  tried  a  half  so  hard.  Did  ye  have  another 
bad  night,  Agnes  ?  " 

Agnes  replied  that  she  had  had  a  very  bad  night 
indeed  ;  but  she  did  not  mind  that.  When  the  pain 
was  very  bad,  you  had  to  keep  awake,  and  then  you 
could  pray. 

"  Ee  !  "  cried  the  woman.  "  That's  good.  That's 
a  good  sign.  The  sign  of  a  strong  favour.  You'll  be 
cured,  my  girl,  for  certain  sure." 

The  girl  made  no  answer,  but  continued  to  pray, 
with  her  eyes  cast  down.  A  stranger  who  was 
present  ventured  to  ask  her  how  long  her  hand  had 
troubled  her. 

"  Two  years,"  she  said,  lifting  her  eyes  (he  wished 
that  she  had  not).  "  It's  a  cramp  from  the  loom. 
The  doctors  said  they  could  not  cure  it ;  but  God 
will  cure  it,  through  the  intercession  of  St.  Winefride. 
I've  had  her  blood  upon  me  fifteen  times." 

"  And  when  He  has  cured  it,  what  will  you  dot" 

"  Get  back  to  my  loom,"  she  said. 

Then  the  priest  came  in  and  preached  to  them 
about  the  importance  of  unremittent  confession. 

And  they  sang  a  hymn — the  hymn  of  St.  Wine- 
fride : 

Full  of  faith  we  come  to  thee. 

Dear  Martyr  Saint  of  Wales  ; 
Though  our  hearts  distressed  may  be, 

Our  courage  never  fails. 

And  we  gather  round  thy  shrine, 

Thy  blessed  praise  to  tell. 
While  the  gifts  of  God  divine 

Flow  from  thy  Holy  Well  1 


ST.  WINEFRIDE'S  SHRINE  123 

Thus  singing,  the  pilgrims  marched  in  procession 
round  about  the  holy  well,  and  the  prostrate  figure 
of  a  fellow-pilgrim.  It  was  that  of  a  rich  and 
beautiful  woman,  clothed  all  in  silk,  who  lay  there, 
praying  loudly,  with  her  hand  in  the  water. 

Then  the  women  had  to  leave  the  precincts  of  the 
well,  while  for  two  hours  men,  crippled  or  whole, 
bathed  in  the  miraculous  waters.  An  official  notice, 
affixed  to  the  carven  pillars  of  the  well-head,  states 
that: 

No  fixed  rule  can  be  given  as  to  the  number  of 

baths  that  should  be  taken.     Whilst  many  striking 

cures  have  been  effected  by  a  first  bath,  in  other 

cases  the  cure  has  not  come  until  after  three  or 

nine  and  sometimes  as  many  as  twenty  or  more 

baths  have  been  taken. 

Another  notice  warns  the  faithful  against  the 
danger  of  prolonged  immersion.  The  shuddering 
bathers,  white  to  the  lips  with  cold,  scrupulously 
observed  this  admonition  : 

It  is  quite  sufficient  to  pass  three  times  through 

the  little  Well,  and  to  kneel  for  a  few  seconds  on  St. 

Beuno's  stone. 

So  they  hobbled  in  and  hobbled  out,  kissing  the 
holy  shrines  in  passing ;  whilst  a  pious  bystander 
recited  prayers. 

Out  in  the  rugged  streets  a  little  later  one  heard 
the  sound  of  music.  This  was  produced  by  an 
earnest  man  with  a  flute,  who,  surrounded  by  cripples, 
was  playing  rather  badly  a  dirge  or  wail. 

"  Eh  !  "  cried  a  woman,  "  that's  a  good  man. 
"  He's  left  a  good  business  in  Preston  to  do  that. 


124  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

He  does  it  every  day  to  cheer  up  the  poor  people." 
The  priest  came  by,  and  a  man  with  a  withered 

hand  went  up  to  him. 

"  See  Father,  see  !  "  cried  the  man,  "I  have  had 

the  dear  Blood  on  it,  and  this  morning  I  can  move 

two  fingers." 

"  You  must  thank  God  for  His  favours,  my  son," 

said  the  priest.     "  You  must  pray  :   keep  praying. 

But  be  careful  not  to  strain  that  hand." 


XV 

A  Waggoner's  Dream 


I  WANT  to  be  lighter  than  air.  I  want  some  in- 
audible shoes  and  an  invisible  suit.  These  things 
are  required  in  order  to  spite  the  Police.  I  refer 
especially  to  one  particular  policeman,  Police 
Constable  Juggins,  of  the  J.  Division  of  the  Mid- 
Sussex  Force. 

Mr.  Juggins  happened  to  find  my  pony-waggon  the 
other  night,  and  he  found  me  in  it — or  underneath  it, 
the  top  part  being  full  of  girls.  These  girls  had 
deprived  me  of  my  usual  comforts,  and  I  had  to 
"  lay  rough  "  on  straw  between  the  wheels. 


We  had  travelled  eighteen  miles  that  day,  over 
roads  which  were  straight  and  flat,  over  country 
which  was  green  and  gay,  if  uneventful.  And  we 
had  found  a  good  sort  of  halting-place  at  last : 
a  good  "  pitch."  The  road  did  actually  kink  just 
there.  Where  it  bowed  out,  there  was  a  little 

125 


126  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

rectangular  patch  of  common  land,  furnished  with 
a  pond  of  water,  a  little  cottage,  and  a  bevy  of  tall, 
old  beeches.  We  "  drew  "  in  beside  the  beeches,  and 
pitched  beneath  their  shade. 

"  Pitching  "  is  to  my  mind,  the  supreme  lark  of 
all  the  good  larks  which  are  bound  up  with  waggon- 
ing— a  gentle,  gracious,  unaggressive,  meditative, 
pastime,  well  suited  to  a  Man  of  Inaction,  such  as 
myself. 

I  don't  think  it  is  nice  of  professional  meditators — 
story-writers,  poets,  philosophers,  investors,  and 
persons  of  that  kind,  to  cultivate  the  animosities 
of  golf,  or  to  kill  dumb  things  with  bullets,  or  to  hate 
each  other  publicly.  Their  proper  pastime  is 
waggoning. 

Let  then  buy  an  old  white  pony,  such  as  mine, 
let  them  build  a  waggon  such  as  mine,  with 
beds  therein,  and  a  chimney-piece,  and  a  crockery 
cupboard,  and  a  wardrobe,  and  then  let  them, 
like  me,  attach  their  pony  to  its  shafts,  put 
butter,  bacon,  bread,  and  girls  inside  their  van,  and 
lumber  off.  Lumber,  lumber,  lumber,  lumb  !  A 
thoughtful  life.  Let  then  lead  their  pony  by  a  rein, 
and  lead  him  gently  over  England,  cracking  a  long 
whip,  beholding  the  wonders  of  creation,  thinking 
constructively  and  drinking  beer. 

And  then  again — but  stay ;  why  should  we  con- 
cern ourselves  with  the  doings  of  famed  men  ? 
Let  them  continue  to  pitch  into  golf  balls.  Let 
them  continue  to  pitch  into  partridges.  Let  them 
pitch  each  other  over  their  precipices  of  scorn.  I 
will  pitch  my  caravan. 


A  WAGGONER'S  DREAM  127 

I  was  saying  how  extremely  good  it  is  to  pitch 
your  waggon.  It  is  a  good  thing  to  work  your  pony 
up  the  hills  ;  to  work  him  cleverly,  to  ease  him  side- 
ways, to  make  your  wheels  perform  judicious  zig- 
zags. It  is  good  to  have  cultivated  perfectly  your 
feeling  for  gradients,  so  that  you  can  stop  your  beast 
in  just  the  fitting  place,  give  him  a  puff  of  wind,  and 
start  him  off  again,  all  slick  and  easy.  It  is  good  to 
amble  beside  him,  along  a  straight  road,  cracking 
your  whip,  to  make  a  sort  of  song  in  keeping  with 
his  slow  hoof-beats  and  the  jingle-jangle  of  his  bells 
and  buckles.  It  is  good  to  hear  the  quiet  laughter 
of  the  women  in  the  van,  and  to  look  up  sometimes 
and  see  their  white  teeth  and  brown  faces  and  their 
gay  sun-bonnets.  And  it  is  good  to  drink  a  pint  of 
beer  with  other  waggoners,  and  to  exchange  your 
bits  of  harness-brass  with  them.  It  is  good  to  scowl 
at  the  village  children  as  they  come  about  you  on  the 
roadside,  saying,  "  Please,  sir,  are  you  the  circus  ?  " 

These  things  are  all  exceedingly  good.  But  the 
best  of  all  things  is  to  find  a  cool,  green  corner  at  the 
close  of  your  long,  hot  journey  ;  to  find  a  patch  of 
no-man's  grass  for  the  old,  white  drudge  to  nibble  at ; 
a  pool  of  water  to  wet  his  feet  in  ;  a  clump  of  trees 
to  shade  your  waggon-top  ;  a  cottage  to  supply  you 
with  well-water,  gossip,  eggs,  and  admiration. 

Having  found  such  a  place,  drawn  in  your  waggon 
and  "  shut  out  "  your  pony,  you  then  take  the 
sweat-sodden  harness  off  him  and  rub  him  down, 
and  he  then  stretches  his  unbitted  mouth  and  yawns. 
And  he  whinnies  for  his  corn  and  grass  and  water. 
And  you  talk  a  lot  of  cant  to  him  about  the  virtues 


128  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

of  patience.  And,  then,  white  smoke  begins  to 
creep  up  from  the  waggon  chimney,  and  the  world 
begins  to  smell  of  eggs  and  bacon,  and  an  Oldest 
Inhabitant  is  standing  at  his  cottage  gate  and 
grinning  at  you,  and  the  bit  of  no-man's  grass  is 
purple  and  golden,  shaded  and  sunned.  Your  pipe 
draws  sweet,  your  collar  tightens.  A  little  prayer 
is  born  insid«  your  throat. 


Such  was  the  place  we  found  this  night.  We  were 
very  thankful,  for  we  were  very  tired.  Three  times 
we  fed  our  pony.  We  ate  our  supper.  We  "  did  " 
the  cottage.  We  eulogised  its  stock  and  asters. 
We  bought  its  eggs.  Then,  at  the  first  fall  of  dark, 
we  went  to  bed  ;  the  brown  girls  in  their  waggon,  I 
between  my  wheels.  And  soon  we  were  sleeping — 
a  waggoner's  sleep  ;  heavy  and  solid  and  careless. 
.- .....  .  .  Then  Mr.  Juggins  appeared. 

He  arrived  when  it  was  quite  dark,  and  woke  me 
suddenly  with  his  noise.  The  following  noise  : 

"  Hi !  Hi !  What's  this  ?  What  the  hell  ?  Come 
along  !  Get  a  move  !  " 

Naturally  enough,  I  sat  up.  The  noise  continued. 
I  blinked  at  it  in  the  darkness  for  about  thirty 
seconds,  and  then,  as  it  were,  I  recognised  it.  A 
policeman  noise.  Hurrah  !  I  love  policeman  noises 
when  I  go  a-waggoning.  Because,  I  have  studied 
the  laws  of  waggoning,  and  the  habits  of  policemen  ; 
and  I  have  acquainted  myself  with  the  wrongs  which 
are  suffered  by  nomad  persons.  Your  clump-soled 


A  WAGGONER'S  DREAM  129 

interfering  constable  is  hors  d'ceuvre  and  oysters  to 
my  ethical  appetite.     Hurrah  ! 

He  then  did  it  again.  "Hi!  Hi!  Hi!  Wake  up, 
ya  dirty  tykes  !  "  He  turned  on  a  lantern,  and 
flashed  it  into  the  waggon  where  the  women  were 
sleeping.  I  could  hear  the  women  feeling  unhappy. 
I  then  spoke.  I  spoke  in  the  measured,  cultivated, 
accents  of  the  Idle  Rich.  I  spoke  like  a  man  with  a 
banking  account.  I  said  : 

"  What  is  this  noise  ?  What  is  the  mattah  ? 
Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Police,"  replied  the  voice  of  Mr.  Juggins. 
"  Then  take  your  lantern  away  at  once,"  I  said. 
"  There  are  ladies  in  theah    .    .    .    sleeping  !    What 
do  you  want,  constable  ?  " 

"  I — I — I  want  you  to  move  on,"  replied  Mr. 
Juggins,  with  a  perceptible  weakening  of  vocal 
power. 

"  Why  do  you  want  me  to  move  on  ?  " . . 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Juggins.  "  You  can't  leave  yar 
waggin  'ere.  Ya  know  ya  can't." 

"  Why  not,"  I  demanded.  "  I  am  well  off  the 
road.  This  is  common  land.  I  am  a  Sussex  rate- 
payer. Why  shouldn't  I  put  my  carriage  here  if  I 
want  to  ?  " 

"  A  ratepayer,  did  ya  say  ?  "  demanded  Mr. 
Juggins. 

'  Yes,"  I  repeated,  "  a  Sussex  ratepayer  !  " 

"  Oh,"    said    Mr.    Juggins.     "  A    ratepayer.     A 
ratepayer.     I  see.     Then,  in  that  case,  you  ain't  one 
to  do  nothink  in  partickler.     You  don't.    ...    I 
meant ersay,  you  ain't  just  travellin'  like  ?  " 
I 


130  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  Oh,  I  do  nothing  in  particular.  And  yet  I  do 
travel.  But,  as  a  ratepayer  of  this  county,  I  fail 
to  see,  as  I  said  to  the  sergeant  at  Blowfield,  before 
I  had  him  reduced,  why  I  should " 

"  A  ratepayer,"  interpolated  Mr.  Juggins.  "  Oh  ! 
I  see  !  Then  you  ain't  a  regular  waggoner  like  ?  " 

"  This  waggon  is  not  connected  with  my  way  of 
earning  a  living,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  I'm  not 
a  rough  man,  buying  rabbit-skins.  I  do  this  sort 
of  thing  for  pleasure." 

"  Then,  sir,"  said  Police  Constable  Juggins, 
"  I'm  very  sorry  as  I  interfered  with  you,  sir,  and  I 
think,  sir,  as  perhaps  you'd  better  take  no  notice 
of  me.  Good  night,  sir.  Thank  you,  sir.  And 
don't  you  take  no  notice  of  me  at  all." 

With  these  words,  Police  Constable  Juggins 
hurriedly  shut  up  his  lantern  and  walked  away. 


That  is  the  end  of  the  story,  except  that  I  went  to 
sleep  again,  and  dreamed  a  dream.  That  is  why  I 
want  to  fulfil  my  dream,  by  floating  around  in  the 
wake  of  Mr.  Juggins. 

I  dreamed  of  following  Mr.  Juggins  on  a  dark 
night.  I  dreamed  that  I  was  unseen,  but  all-seeing. 
I  dreamed  that  I  followed  Mr.  Juggins  down  a  dark 
lane,  until  we  came  to  a  space  whereat  a  pony- 
waggon  stood.  And,  in  this  waggon,  brown  women 
and  little  tired  brown  pigmies  were  sleeping,  and, 
under  the  waggon,  tired  brown  men  were  sleeping — 
honest  men,  if  dirty,  who  were  surrounded  by 


A  WAGGONER'S  DREAM  131 

rabbit-skins,  old  motor  tyres,  torn  kettles,  and 
soiled  sacking. 

Halting  at  this  waggon,  Constable  Juggins 
respectfully  closed  his  lantern,  and  put  on  his 
Sunday  gloves  of  white  cotton.  Then  he  hesitantly 
tapped  on  the  waggon  wall,  and  spoke  in  a  hesi- 
tating voice : 

"  Ahem,"  he  said.  "  Good  evening.  Excuse  me, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  but  .  .  .  are  you  Sussex 
ratepayers  ?  " 


XVI 

The  Man  in  the  Grey  Hat 


THE  tea  shop  had  a  mauve  carpet  and  pink  curtains, 
and  it  was  absurdly  embellished  with  pink  ribbons. 
Bows  and  streamers  of  pink  ribbon  were  attached 
to  the  legs  of  little  bamboo  tables  and  even  to  the 
languishing  waists  of  potted  indiarubber  plants. 
But  the  customer  in  the  grey  hat  didn't  notice  these 
things.  He  was  blind. 

A  lady  had  led  him  into  the  tea  shop  and  had 
guided  him,  not  with  conspicuous  skill,  between 
crowded  little  tables,  awkward,  angular  little  chairs 
and  innumerable  umbrella  points.  The  man  in 
the  grey  hat  was  big-limbed,  shy  and  awkward.  He 
was  careless  about  the  disposal  of  his  shambling 
feet  in  their  heavy  boots.  Several  ladies  in  the 
tea  shop  uttered  exclamations  of  pain  or  indignation 
which  they  speedily  repressed  on  looking  up  at  the 
grey  mask  under  the  grey  hat.  The  man  went 
blundering  on  under  the  direction  of  his  guide  until 
the  controlling  pressure  of  her  fingers  at  his  elbow 

132 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  GREY  HAT        133 

brought  him  to  a  standstill  before  a  vacant  space 
on  a  little  pink  silk  divan  in  a  crowded  corner. 

"  There's  a  seat  here,"  the  guide  announced  and 
impelled  her  charge  towards  it  with  a  little  push  of 
encouragement.  But  the  blind  man  held  back. 

"  There  ain't  much  room,  is  there  ?  "  he  questioned. 
His  guide  agreed  that  there  was  not  much  room,  but 
assured  him  that  there  was  enough. 

"  Ah  !  but  what  about  my  hat  ?  "  said  the  blind 
man. 

"  I  can  hold  your  hat,"  suggested  the  lady. 

The  blind  man  looked  doubtful  and  said,  after  a 
little  hesitation  :  "I  wouldn't  like  to  give  you  that 
trouble,  ma'am." 

The  lady  then  suggested  that  the  hat  could  be 
hung  on  the  post  of  a  chair,  but  the  blind  man  shook 
his  head.  "  Perhaps  I  had  better  hold  it,"  he 
remarked,  "  it  would  be  safer  to  hold  it." 

"  He  !  He  !  "  ejaculated  the  lady  quite  suddenly. 
It  was  an  unexpected  noise,  not  in  the  least  mirthful, 
but  evidently  put  forward  in  token  of  high  spirits 
and  jollity.  Urged  by  his  guide  the  blind  man  then 
sat  down,  removing  the  grey  hat  from  his  head  and 
placing  it  on  his  knee  and  holding  it  there  with  a  hot, 
determined  hand.  His  other  hand — the  left  one — 
was  raised  to  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  where  his  ringers 
sought  reassuring  contact  with  a  silver  ornament  — 
the  badge  of  a  discharged  soldier. 

We  were  very  crowded  in  that  corner,  as  I  have 
already  remarked,  and,  although  the  little  bamboo 
pot  stands  that  did  duty  for  tables  were  severely 
separate,  in  conformity  with  the  etiquette  of  really 


134  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  nace  "  tea  shops,  there  was  a  certain  inevitable 
contagion  of  knees.  My  own  knee  happened  to 
touch  that  of  the  blind  man,  who  immediately 
brought  his  left  hand  to  his  hat  in  reinforcement  of 
his  right  hand,  his  whole  body  becoming  rigid  with 
the  impulse  of  defence. 

"  I  can  feel  as  we  are  sitting  pretty  close,"  said  the 
soldier  to  his  companion  and  guide,  who  assented 
with  a  louder  "He!  He!"  than  before.  She 
looked  across  our  little  tables  at  me,  and  in  ex- 
planation of  this  noise  said  loudly : 

"  One  must  be  bright." 

I  could  see  from  this  that  the  blind  man's  fair 
companion  shared  the  quite  general  but  very  strange 
belief  that  blind  men  are  devoid  of  hearing. 

The  waitress  brought  them  tea,  picking  her  way 
through  the  huddle  of  furniture.  The  tinkle  of 
spoon  against  saucer  carried  a  message  to  the  blind 
man,  who  put  out  his  left  hand  and  drew  a  tea-cup 
cautiously  towards  him.  His  right  hand  still 
grasped  the  hat.  His  companion  plied  him  with  tea 
and  toasted  scones,  and  he  showed  much  ingenuity 
in  conveying  these  aliments  to  his  mouth  by  the 
single  efforts  of  his  left  hand.  His  companion,  after 
looking  nervously  at  the  table-cloth  and  the  carpet, 
at  last  put  forward  the  bold  proposal  that  he  should 
use  both  hands.  "  You  would  find  it  so  much  more 
comfortable,"  she  said.  The  blind  man  shook  his 
head.  He  declared  that  he  was  getting  along  first 
class.  Then  he  lifted  the  cup  and  spilled  some  more 
hot  tea  ;  but  he  got  a  good  deal  into  his  mouth,  and 
under  its  homely  stimulus  became  quite  talkative. 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  GREY  HAT        135 

"  You  may  wonder,"  said  the  blind  man  (and 
these  three  introductory  words  elicited  a  "  He  ! 
He  !  "  from  the  lady).  "  You  may  wonder  to  see  me 
go  fiddling  about  with  one  hand  the  way  I  am  doing. 
But,  to  tell  you  the  truth  and  to  be  quite  frank  about 
it,  I  don't  want  to  lose  a-holt  of  this  hat.  It's 
some  hat,  this  is  ;  a  very  good  hat  indeed,  with  a 
bit  of  style  about  it  and  not  half  a  brim.  It  is  the 
shape  of  hat  I've  always  seemed  to  fancy,  and  the 
lining's  silk.  They  tell  me  it's  got  a  motto  wrote 
inside  it :  'As  worn  by  the  King.'  That  speaks  for 
the  style.  They  tell  me  it's  a  grey  hat.  I  hope 
it's  not  a  dark  grey.  I  like  a  cheerful  hat,  I 
do." 

The  lady  again  looked  across  at  me,  shaking  her 
head,  which  even  in  the  shadowy  light  of  the  tea 
shop  could  be  seen  to  require  regilding.  "  Pathetic, 
isn't  it  ?  "  exclaimed  the  lady.  "  But,"  she  added, 
"  one  must  laugh,"  and  accordingly  did  so  in  a 
succession  of  shrill  B-sharps. 

To  illustrate  her  gifts  of  gaiety,  she  turned  to  the 
blind  man  and  engaged  him  in  coquettish  dialogue. 
At  first  the  blind  man  did  not  try  to  play  this  game, 
but  breathed  profusely  and  clutched  very  firmly  at 
the  precious  hat.  But  after  the  further  administra- 
tion of  tea  his  spirit  rallied.  By  the  time  his 
companion,  resting  her  arms  on  the  table  with  a 
confidential  gesture  of  the  shoulders,  had  reached 
the  point  of  enquiring  (He!  He!)  "how  old  he  really 
thought  she  was — joking  apart,  you  know" — the 
blind  man  had  found  enough  to  say.  The  tea  shop 
had  almost  emptied  by  now  and  he  seemed  to  be 


136  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

quite  conscious  of  this  fact,  and  was  therefore  at  no 
pains  to  lower  his  voice. 

"  I  should  say,  lady,"  replied  the  blind  man  in 
answer  to  her  question,  "  that  you  was  neither 
young  nor  old." 

An  expression  of  disappointment  appeared  on  her 
little  grey  face,  but  she  proceeded  hopefully.  ' '  That 
is  no  answer,"  she  argued,  "  it  is  an  evasion." 

"  It's  the  truth,"  insisted  the  blind  man,  "  what 
I  mean  to  say  is  you  ain't  very  old  but  you  might 
be  a  great  deal  younger." 

"Oh  .  .  . !  "  gasped  the  lady.  "  But  how  do 
you  know  that  ?  "  she  said,  after  thought. 

"  Can't  say,"  replied  the  man  with  the  grey  hat, 
"  I  just  do  know  it,  same  as  I  know  you  got  a  good 
heart.  You  ain't  very  clever  per'aps — not  too 
sensible — but  you  got  a  good  heart  and  you  would 
not  be  rude  of  a  purpose." 

The  lady  could  at  first  find  no  word  to  utter  save 
another  "  Oh  "  ;  but  she  was  not  lacking  in  courage 
and  returned  to  the  contest.  "  If  you  know  so 
much,"  she  said,  a  little  nervously,  "  do  you  know 
what  I  am  like  ?  " 

"  Thin,"  replied  the  soldier. 

"  Dark  or  fair  ?  " 

The  soldier  gazed  with  all  his  sightless  might  at 
her  dim  hair.  "  You  ain't  dark  nor  you  ain't 
fair,"  he  said.  "  You're  grey.  But,"  he  added 
thoughtfully,  "  you  hide  it  well.  I  am  sure  of  that." 

The  lady  getting  up  from  her  table  looked  down 
at  him  with  a  little  sigh.  "  Are  you  just  guessing 
all  this  ?  "  she  asked. 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  GREY  HAT        137 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  the  man,  getting  up,  too, 
and  putting  on  his  grey  hat  and  turning  his  face  very 
gravely  towards  her.  "Not  at  all.  Us  blinded 
chaps  can't  hear  much  per'aps,  but  we  see  a  lot." 


XVII 

Brotherhood 


MR.  PLUMMER,  our  local  rate  collector,  first  men- 
tioned the  Village  Brotherhood  to  me.  He  said 
that  the  inaugural  meeting  of  this  Society  was  to  be 
held  in  our  Parish  Hall  on  the  following  Saturday, 
and  that,  while  he  felt  my  sympathy,  he  would  like 
to  see  my  subscription. 

On  my  way  to  the  Parish  Hall  on  the  Saturday 
night  I  fell  in  with  Mr.  Jacob  Bunyard,  our  Vorticist 
laundryman,  who  takes  away  my  plain  shirts  and 
striped  pyjamas  and  gives  me  back  the  most  imagina- 
tive assortment  of  lace  and  chiffon.  Mr.  Bunyard 
explained  the  Village  Brotherhood  to  me. 

He  gave  me  to  understand  that  the  Village 
Brotherhood  is  the  expression  of  a  brand-new  social 
spirit,  a  spirit  of  atonement,  born  of  the  war,  and 
f ortified  by  ideas  of  genuine  democracy,  co-operative 
rabbit-keeping,  and  all  that.  Rich  people  had 
started  the  Union,  it  seemed,  but  poor  people  sub- 
scribed to  it,  and  everything  else  accomplished 
itself.  You  paid  your  shilling  and  class  feeling 

138 


BROTHERHOOD  139 

became  abolished,  tyranny  expired,  and  you  bought 
your  poultry  food  in  bulk.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Bunyard's  premises  were  not  uncomplicated, 
but  they  were  varied  enough  to  inspire  me  with  real 
interest  in  the  forthcoming  meeting. 

This  meeting  had  already  begun  when  we  reached 
the  Hall.  It  was  a  very  crowded  meeting,  and  I 
noticed  that  the  new  spirit  of  unity  created  by  the 
war  had  not  waxed  strong  enough  to  interfere  with 
the  traditional  arrangement  of  the  chairs. 

Everybody  who  mattered  was  there,  but  the  fact 
that  they  mattered  was  signified  in  the  usual  way. 
Those  that  mattered  most  occupied  a  semicircular 
row  of  chairs  behind  the  Chairman's  table.  Those 
that  mattered  next  had  the  front  row  of  chairs  in 
front  of  the  Chairman.  Behind  these  chairs  was  a 
space  or  aisle,  behind  which  were  ranged  two  further 
rows  of  chairs  for  those  who  mattered  less.  There 
was  a  very  wide  space  indeed  behind  the  last  row  of 
these,  for  the  use  of  people  who  didn't  matter  at  all. 
Here  the  subscribers  sat  and  gaped. 

The  Chairman  was  speaking  when  we  entered  the 
hall,  and,  although  we  entered  lightly,  peace-time 
footwear  has  a  quality  of  insistence  which  is  not  to  be 
subdued.  We  entered  at  a  very  noteworthy  point 
in  the  Chairman's  address :  the  point  at  which  he 
was  explaining  how  this  war — this  dreadful  war — 
would  not  have  been  fought  in  vain  if  it  had  resulted, 
as  he  believed  it  had  resulted,  in  a  quickening  of  the 
sense  of  brotherhood  and  equality  between  man  and 
man  in  a  village  such  as  this.  He  himself  happened 
to  be  an  employer  of  labour — a  considerable  em- 


140  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

ployer  of  labour — but  he  felt,  as  all  large  employers 
of  labour  now  felt,  that  it  was  his  duty  to  consider 
the  interests  of  the  labouring  population  of  this 
village  in  every  way,  and  to  treat  the  labouring 
population  with  that  courtesy  and  consideration 
which  he  would  expect  to  receive  from  them  and 
(here  our  footsteps  intervened) — and  (more  foot- 
steps) ..."  Stop  that  shuffling  about  over 
there !  "  said  the  Chairman.  "  Simmons,  make 
those  men  sit  down  !  " 

After  Simmons,  Mr.  Bunyard,  and  myself  had 
exchanged  a  few  brotherly  words,  nearly  all  beginning 
with  B,  the  Chairman  resumed  his  remarks,  which 
were  conceived  in  the  spirit  of  an  employer  of  labour 
who  had  found  salvation. 

The  Chairman,  I  may  remark,  does  not,  like  his 
semicircle  of  immediate  supporters,  belong  to  the 
class  who  subsist  on  rents  and  dividends  and  un- 
earned increments  of  capital.  The  Chairman,  Mr. 
William  Job,  a  professional  tomato  grower,  had  been 
chosen  to  preside  at  our  conference  in  his  capacity 
of  a  practical  man.  As  a  tomato  grower  on  the 
wholesale  basis,  he  is  regarded  as  belonging  both  to 
the  economic  heights  and  the  social  depths  ;  and 
his  chairmanship  was  intended  to  express  the 
essentially  democratic  basis  of  the  whole  Village 
Brotherhood  idea. 

"  As  a  large  employer  of  labour  who  has  learned 
his  lesson  from  this  war,"  said  the  Chairman,  "  I 
hold  that  village  life  wants  waking  up  in  every  way. 
As  far  as  this  village  is  concerned,  some  of  us  intend 
that  it  shall  wake  up.  We  are  going  to  alter  the 


BROTHERHOOD  141 

whole  tone  of  the  place.  Why,  we're  going  to  have 
a  village  stud-goat  :  and  we're  going  to  start  a 
cinnemer  \  " 

The  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  the  semicircle  behind 
the  Chairman  applauded  these  proposals  very 
loudly.  The  subscribers  went  on  gaping.  The 
Chairman  then  intimated  that  his  address  was  at  an 
end,  and  invited  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Welch-Smith 
to  carry  on.  This  lady  arose,  and,  in  a  nervous 
undertone,  punctuated  frequently  by  abrupt  and 
irrelevant  giggles,  contributed  some  confused  re- 
marks about  intensive  hens.  The  Brotherhood  had 
been  recommended  (giggle)  to  lay  its  own  eggs 
(giggle),  that  was  to  say  (gurgle,  giggle)  the  Brother- 
hood had  been  recommended  to  acquire  some  hens, 
and  then  they  would  lay,  and  then— at  this  point 
there  was  further  commotion  at  the  far  end  of  the 
hall. 

It  was  occasioned  by  the  entry  of  a  small  white- 
haired  lady,  with  fierce  black  eyes,  who  carried  a 
thick,  oak  club,  and  was  followed  by  two  or  three 
dogs.  These  were  white,  short-featured  dogs,  of  the 
bull  terrier  type,  who  immediately  found  trouble  in 
the  person  of  a  small  Schipperke.  The  lady  with  the 
resolute  eyes,  whom  I  recognised  as  my  Aunt 
Elizabeth  Pengelly,  got  busy  with  her  oak  club,  and 
there  was  much  noise  and  excitement.  The  oak 
club  proved  irresistible,  and  all  the  dogs  lay  down, 
and  my  Aunt  Elizabeth,  who  was  very  out  of  breath, 
shouted  loudly  for  a  chair,  and,  every  chair  being 
occupied,  was  forced  to  accept  the  invitation  of  a 
lady  in  a  brown  silk  dress,  and  sit  on  half  of  hers. 


142  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

Throughout  all  these  proceedings  the  Honourable 
Mrs.  Welch-Smith  continued  her  advocacy  of  inten- 
sive poultry  keeping.  A  particular  breed  of  hen 
(giggle)  had  been  recommended  to  the  Brotherhood. 
A  breed  (giggle)  which  she  thought  (giggle)  went  by 
the  name  (giggle)  of  White  Leghorn.  Interruption, 
with  flourish  of  club,  from  my  Aunt  Elizabeth. 

"  White  Leghorns  are  namby-pamby  birds.  Too 
delicate.  What  we  want  is  Langshans."  Cries  of 
"  No  !  "  "  Yes  !  "  "  Wyandottes  !  "  "  Light  Sussex  !" 
Complete  subsidence  of  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Welch- 
Smith. 

The  Chairman,  having  risen  and  related  an 
amusing  anecdote  about  a  novice  and  a  gun,  order 
and  good  humour  were  restored.  The  Chairman 
then  referred  to  what  he  called  "  Mrs.  Welch- 
Smith's  very  able  and  convincing  speech."  He  went 
on  to  point  out  that,  if  the  Brotherhood  should  acquire 
some  prize  hens  as  suggested,  practical  arrangements 
would  have  to  be  made  for  their  upkeep  and  care. 
He  suggested  that  they  should  start  with  one  pen 
and  that  some  capable  member  of  the  Brotherhood 
might  be  found  to  look  after  it,  food,  of  course,  being 
provided  by  the  Committee.  At  this  a  member 
of  the  Brotherhood  in  the  body  of  the  hall  stood  up 
and  nodded.  "  Ah,  Mr.  Twyford,"  exclaimed  the 
Chairman,  "  I  thought  we  could  rely  on  Mr. 
Twyford.  Well,  Mr.  Twyford,  what  have  you  to 
say  ?  " 

Mr.  Twyford,  who  looked  rather  like  a  stage 
Irishman,  having  a  long,  clean-shaven  upper  lip,  a 
straight  mouth,  and  grey  chin  tufts,  said  that  he 


BROTHERHOOD  143 

supposed  the  party  as  volunteered  to  mind  these 
chicken  would  keep  the  eggs  for  his  trouble. 

The  Chairman's  reply,  which  was  prolonged  and 
suave,  may  be  expressed  in  the  four  words  :  "  Noth- 
ing of  the  sort."  He  pointed  out  that  the  whole 
object  of  the  Brotherhood  in  maintaining  these  birds 
was  to  obtain  sittings  of  eggs  for  distribution  to  its 
members. 

"  Then,"  said  Mr.  Twyford,  "the  party  as 
volunteers  to  mind  these  chickun  don't  get  no  re- 
payment for  his  trouble  ?  " 

"Well,  no,"  admitted  the  Chairman.  "The  idea 
of  this  Brotherhood  is  that  the  members  help  each 
other  without  question  of  payment." 

"  Under  that  consideration,"  replied  Mr.  Twyford, 
"  I  must  decline  to  volunteer."  Saying  which,  he 
sat  down. 

The  Chairman  looked  round  the  hall  and  his  eye 
came  to  rest  on  an  individual  at  the  far  end.  "  Per- 
haps Mr.  Moggeridge  can  make  a  suggestion,"  said 
the  Chairman. 

Mr.  Moggeridge  rose  and  revealed  himself  as  a 
Red  Twin  of  Mr.  Twyford  :  a  physical  replica  of  that 
gentleman  in  all  respects  save  that  of  colour.  "  I 
know  a  party,"  said  the  Red  Twin,  "  leastways, 
I  think  I  know  a  party  as  might  oblige  you."  With 
which  words  he  sat  down. 

Then  my  Aunt  Elizabeth,  thumping  the  floor  with 
her  stick,  shouted  an  enquiry.  "  What  about 
coops,  Job  ?  "  she  demanded.  Mr.  Job  is  a  plain 
tomato-grower  to  rny  Aunt  Elizabeth,  on  all  occasions, 
always. 


144  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  Ah,"  said  the  Chairman,  thoughtfully,  "  coops  ! 
Have  you  any  suggestion  to  make  about  coops,  Mr. 
Twyford  ?  " 

Mr.  Twyford  believed  that  there  was  a  tidy  few 
old  coops  knocking  about  his  plat,  and  he  had  no 
objection  to  obliging  the  Brotherhood  with  them, 
providing  that  the  price  offered  by  the  Brotherhood 
could  be  looked  upon  as  satisfactory. 

"  The  point  is,"  said  the  Chairman,  "  that  we  have 
hardly  sufficient  funds  to  buy  coops.  Nor  do  we 
really  require  to  buy  them.  Perhaps  you  could  lend 
us  a  couple  of  your  coops  for  the  season  ?  " 

"  I  could,"  said  Mr.  Twyford,  "  and  I  would — for 
a  consideration." 

The  Chairman's  eye  went  travelling  again,  and 
again  it  came  to  rest  on  Mr.  Moggeridge. 

The  Red  Twin  rose  slowly  to  his  feet  and  drew  in 
his  breath  with  an  air  of  profound  thought.  "  I 
think  I  know  the  party  as  might  have  a  coop  to 
lend,"  he  said  :  "  I  think  I  doos,"  and  then  sat 
down, 

My  Aunt  Elizabeth  thumped  her  stick  again  and 
wished  to  know  where  the  Committee  proposed  to 
buy  these  Langshans.  (Cries  of  "  Minorcas ! " 
"  Brown  Sussex  !  "  "  Rhode  Island  Reds  !  ") 

Amid  this  confusion  Mr.  Twyford  stood  up  and 
raised  his  arm  to  secure  silence.  "  If  the  Brother- 
hood want  a  few  good  birds — Leghorns,  Light 
Sussex,  or  any  other  kind,"  said  Mr.  Twyford,  "  I 
should  be  very  pleased  to  oblige  them,  for  a  small 
consideration." 

Then  a  modest  cough  was  heard  in  intimation  of 
the  fact  that  the  Vicar  had  come  among  us. 


BROTHERHOOD  145 

That  gentleman,  enfolding  us  all  in  a  broad, 
pastoral  smile,  was  sorry  to  have  to  inform  us  that 
as  the  clock  now  pointed  to  half-past  nine  the  meeting 
would  have  to  terminate.  He  ventured  to  remind 
us  that  these  were  church  premises  and  that  the 
rules  appertaining  to  church  government  must  be 
observed,  even  by  institutions  which  saw  fit  to  usurp 
some  functions  which  the  inhabitants  of  that  village 
had  in  other  days  been  content  to  entrust  to  the  care 
of  the  Church.  Brotherhood  was  a  beautiful  thing, 
but  there  were  some  in  that  hall,  and  those  not  the 
most  humble,  or  least  educated,  who  seemed  to  need 
reminding  that  the  idea  of  Brotherhood  could  not  be 
divorced  from  religion,  nor  the  duty  of  preaching 
the  gospel  of  brotherhood  be  lightly  assumed  by 

laymen  and "  And  so  on  for  fifteen  minutes, 

after  which  we  were  allowed  to  go  home. 

My  Aunt  Elizabeth  allowed  me  to  see  her  home. 
In  the  dark  and  muddy  lane  outside  the  churchyard 
she  took  my  arm  and  said,  rather  eagerly,  "  Who  was 
that  pleasant  woman  in  the  brown  silk  dress  ?  The 
one  who  gave  me  her  chair  ?  " 

"  That !  "  I  answered  :  "Oh,  that  was  Mrs.  Pond, 
the  bailiff's  wife  at  Slugwash  Park." 

Aunt  Elizabeth  released  my  arm. 

"  Bailiff's  wife  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Why,  damn 
it,  I  lent  the  woman  a  pocket-handkerchief !  " 


XVIII 

An  Absentee 


THIS  is  a  further  extract  from  the  annals  of  my 
Derby  Dog. 

While  "  Passed  to  you  for  information  and 
necessary  action,  please  "  consumed  a  great  deal  of 
that  individual's  attention,  there  were  interludes  of 
semi-official  sunshine.  Mr.  Horace  Muster  was  one 
of  these. 

Mr.  Muster  was  inaugurated  by  a  stout  police- 
sergeant,  who  reported  the  discovery  of  Horace  on 
Piltdown,  where  prehistoric  giants,  stone  dwarfs,  and 
curiosities  of  all  kinds  are  continually  being  found. 
Horace  Muster  was  neither  a  giant  nor  a  dwarf,  but, 
as  he  confessed  to  having  slept  for  several  nights 
on  the  open  down,  he  was  thought  to  possess  an 
unofficial  temperament.  Also,  he  had  failed  to 
produce  any  documentary  evidence  of  his  right  to 
wear  plain  clothing,  and  had  therefore  been  arrested 
as  an  absentee  from  military  service.  They  had 
lodged  him  in  a  detention  cell  at  the  Town  Hall,  and 
this  fact  was  now  reported  by  the  stout  police- 

146 


AN  ABSENTEE  147 

sergeant  for  "  information  and  necessary  action, 
please." 

The  necessary  action  was,  as  usual,  assigned  to  the 
Derby  Dog.  That  small  warrior  was  instructed  to 
accompany  the  police-sergeant  to  the  detention  cells, 
to  take  delivery  of  the  absentee,  to  conduct  that 
individual  to  the  barracks  on  the  hill  (some  three 
miles  distant),  to  have  him  medically  examined,  and 
then  to  return  him  to  the  police.  Having  received 
these  instructions,  and  an  Army  Form  B .  178  which 
was  void  of  all  data  save  the  bare  postulate  of 
Horace  Muster's  existence,  the  Derby  Dog  saluted, 
put  up  his  ink-bottles,  and  went  away  with  the 
police-sergeant. 

This  personage  was  far  from  being  what  is  called  a 
chatterbox.  He  walked  in  silence,  with  a  flat  foot 
and  loud  bronchial  symptoms.  But  towards  the  end 
of  their  journey  to  the  Town  Hall  he  did  utter  a 
remark.  This  was  singular  in  substance  as  well 
as  kind,  and  impressed  itself  upon  the  Derby  Dog's 
memory.  The  police-sergeant's  solitary  lapse  into 
speech  was  occasioned  by  the  sight  of  a  public  house, 
which  exhibited  shuttered  windows  and  the  dismal 
notification  "  No  Beer."  He  emitted  a  noise  like  the 
farewell  gurgle  of  a  bath  waste  and  said :  "  Ah, 
corporal,  this  is  a  terrible  hard  war  for  the  licensed 
victuallers." 

Arrived  at  the  Town  Hall  the  Derby  Dog  was  taken 
into  a  subterranean  labyrinth,  giving  access  to  a 
number  of  small  cages.  These  were  the  detention 
cells.  Latticed  ironwork  in  front  of  each  cell 
created  the  suggestion  of  a  poorly  furnished  passenger 


148  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

lift.  Some  of  these  cells  were  empty,  but  most  of 
them  were  populated  by  watchful  men  awaiting  the 
necessary  action,  please.  In  the  last  cage  of  all  was 
the  Derby  Dog's  man.  He  was  a  small  man  with  a 
jerky  smile,  and  active,  incandescent  eyes,  and  he 
wore  a  brightly  coloured  neckerchief  and  a  cap  of 
checkered  pattern,  boldly  peaked.  He  blinked  at 
his  visitors  through  the  bars  of  the  cage  with  his 
little  wild-beast  eyes,  and  then  he  jerked  his  sudden, 
irrelevant  smile  at  the  Derby  Dog  and  uttered  the 
mysterious  words  "  Hi,  buck  !  " 

"  Go  in  cautious  like,"  said  the  police-sergeant,  in 
a  bronchial  whisper :  "  We  don't  like  the  look  of 
'im.  We  don't  like  that  sloppy  grin  of  his.  Keep 
him  in  front  of  you." 

With  these  words  the  police-sergeant  unlocked 
the  iron  door  and  drew  it  back  along  its  guides.  He 
motioned  the  Derby  Dog  to  enter  the  cage  and  take 
possession  of  its  inmate. 

The  Derby  Dog  entered  cautiously  but  without 
much  fuss,  for  he  somehow  didn't  share  his  com- 
panion's suspicion  of  the  jerky  smile.  Unblinking 
solemnity  is  no  doubt  the  best  sort  of  facial  ex- 
pression for  daily  use  in  a  damp  climate  ;  but  after 
nine  months  in  the  British  Army  the  Derby  Dog  was 
prepared  to  welcome  anything  different.  He  walked 
up  to  Mr.  Horace  Muster,  and,  assuming  a  negligent 
posture,  returned  his  grin.  Horace,  having  rolled 
his  eyes  about  and  dribbled  somewhat  at  the  mouth, 
lifted  an  unsteady  hand,  prominently  knuckled,  and 
smote  the  Derby  Dog  upon  the  shoulder,  exclaiming 
triumphantly  :  "Hi,  buck  !  " 


AN  ABSENTEE  149 

"  Hi,  buck !  "  replied  the  Derby  Dog,  hitting 
Horace  back  again,  thus  establishing  a  relationship 
of  mutual  confidence. 

The  Derby  Dog  then  broached  with  Horace  this 
amusing  project  of  a  nice  walk  up  the  jolly  hill  to  the 
pretty  barracks.  Horace  smiled  agreeably  and 
immediately  collected  his  luggage  in  token  of  his 
readiness  to  leave  home  at  once.  Horace's  luggage 
consisted  of  a  faded  bunch  of  primroses,  which  he 
pinned  carefully  into  his  cap,  and  a  large  bundle 
wrapped  round  with  a  blanket  and  string,  and 
containing  a  powerful  smell. 

The  Derby  Dog  then  signed  a  receipt  for  Horace 
("  Un-examined  "),  and  guided  him  up  the  forty- 
nine  steep  steps,  all  dark  and  stony,  which  led  to  the 
fresh  air  and  the  jolly  hill  and  pretty  barracks. 
Half  way  up  these  steps  Mr.  Muster  gave  vent  to 
one  of  his  "  Hi,  buck's !  "  with  accompanying 
gesture,  but  otherwise  the  journey  was  accomplished 
without  incident. 

On  reaching  the  streets  they  started  on  their 
journey  at  a  good  pace.  Mr.  Muster  scrambled 
along  nicely  at  first,  rolling  his  eyes  in  all  directions, 
continually  smiling  and  occasionally  dribbling. 
But  after  a  few  minutes  of  this  Horace's  shuffle  began 
to  slacken.  His  smile  became  jerky,  his  demeanour 
unhappy.  He  dragged  behind  and  stared  anxiously 
about  him  as  if  looking  for  something.  At  last, 
apparently,  he  found  it,  for  he  stopped  abruptly 
outside  a  flower-shop  and  bolted  into  it. 

The  Derby  Dog  was  obliged  to  follow  Horace, 
and  was  just  in  time  to  avert  the  catastrophe  which 


150  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

would  certainly  have  resulted  from  Horace's  evident 
intention  of  "  Hi,  buck  !-ing  "  the  young  lady  behind 
the  counter.  She  was  a  haughty  damsel,  wearing 
tier  upon  tier  of  auburn  hair,  with  everything  stuck 
in  it  except  the  plated  toast-rack,  and  she  responded 
distantly  to  Horace's  facial  jerks. 

That  child  of  nature  was  now  gesticulating.  First 
of  all  he  removed  the  ex-bouquet  from  his  cap  and 
showed  it  to  Zonia,  or  Maud,  with  evident  disfavour, 
and  then  he  pointed  to  his  empty  cap  and  to  a  pretty 
bunch  of  primroses  and  violets  which  were  dis- 
played on  the  counter.  The  young  lady  nodded 
appreciatively,  picked  up  the  bunch  of  flowers,  laced 
it  rapidly  with  wire,  and  presented  it  to  Horace,  who 
thereupon  took  it  and  pointed  explicitly  to  the 
Derby  Dog's  right-hand  trouser  pocket.  This 
poetic  interlude  cost  the  Derby  Dog  a  shilling,  but 
it  was  worth  the  expenditure  of  this  small  sum  to 
behold  the  air  of  quiet  contentment  with  which  Mr. 
Muster  came  out  of  the  shop  in  his  newly  decorated 
cap. 

They  resumed  their  walk,  at  first  in  silence  as 
before ;  but  suddenly  Horace  spoke.  Stopping 
abruptly,  and  jerking  a  smile  of  shrewd  significance 
at  his  companion,  he  said  :  "  Do  you  know  that  your 
Redeemer  liveth  ?  " 

Being  surprised,  or  perhaps  shocked,  at  this 
unexpected  question,  the  Derby  Dog  merely  nodded, 
whereupon  Horace  smote  him  briskly  between  the 
shoulder  blades,  and  exclaimed  :  "  Well,  Hi,  buck  !  " 

After  this  the  absentee  relapsed  into  silence,  and 
they  went  on — ever  on,  aiming  for  the  jolly  hill  and 


AN  ABSENTEE  151 

pretty  barracks.  They  had  travelled  about  half  a  mile 
when  Horace  was  seized  suddenly  with  a  jerk  of  that 
peculiar  significance  which  intimated  the  approach 
of  speech  ;  but  this  time  he  did  not  speak  to  the  Dei  by 
Dog.  He  darted  suddenly  into  the  road  and  ad- 
dressed himself  to  a  fragile  old  lady  in  a  bath-chair. 
"  What  price  them  ear-rings  when  ye're  dead," 
demanded  Horace  in  a  rapid  whisper.  "  Yar  time's 
up.  No  good  to  'oiler.  They'll  burn  you  to  a  small 
black  lump." 

The  fragile  old  lady  simply  lay  back  in  her  bath- 
chair  and  screamed,  and  the  Derby  Dog  simply 
called  a  four-wheeled  cab  and  pushed  Mr.  Muster 
into  it,  and  the  remainder  of  the  journey  was 
accomplished  en  prince.  An  anxious  moment  was 
experienced  by  the  Derby  Dog  when  Horace  brought 
forth  a  clasp-knife  and  began  to  sharpen  it  on  the 
sole  of  his  boot,  but  a  few  words  of  friendly  enquiry 
and  explanation  soon  put  that  matter  right. 

The  Derby  Dog  :  "  Why  are  you  sharpening  your 
knife  ?  " 

Horace  :  "  It  ain't  my  knife.  It's  another  party's 
knife." 

The  Derby  Dog  :  "  It's  a  very  nice  knife." 
Horace  :  "  Ah  !  The  party  what  used  to  'ave  this 
knife,  'e  cut  'is  froat  wiv  it." 
The  Derby  Dog  :  "  Why  are  you  sharpening  it  ?  " 
Horace  :  "  'Cos  it's  blunt,  old  buck." 
The  Derby  Dog :    "  I'm  very  nervous  of  knives. 
Do  you  mind  if  I  ask  you  to  put  that  one  away  ?  " 
Horace  (heartily)  :    "Hi,  buck  !  " 
The  Derby  Dog  :  "  Hi,  b-b-b-b-ba !  " 


152  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

Horace  (closing  his  knife  and  throwing  it  into  the 
road)  :   "  There  y'are.    Now  larf." 

They  arrived  at  the  barracks  soon  after  that, 
and  the  prescribed  period  of  delay  having  elapsed 
they  were  in  due  course  admitted  to  the  chamber 
where  the  officers  of  the  Medical  Board  were  assem- 
bled. Here  Mr.  Muster  conducted  himself  with 
great  propriety,  though  the  essential  sunniness  of  his 
nature  was  somewhat  eclipsed  by  the  influence  of 
Board-room  ritual.  Also  he  insisted  on  being 
accompanied  by  his  precious  bundle,  the  afore- 
mentioned qualities  of  which  were  so  marked  as  to 
attract  notice.  The  P.M.B.  demanded  bluntly  what 
the  bundle  contained.  Horace,  with  equal  blunt- 
ness,  but  with  a  good  deal  of  eye-work,  answered 
simply  :  "  Clean  shirts." 

The  medical  examination  of  Mr.  Muster  was 
thereafter  concluded,  and  I  have  reason  to  know 
that  its  results  were  not  favourable  to  any  idea  which 
may  have  been  formed  of  adding  Horace  to  the 
strength  of  the  British  Army,  The  phrase  "  talipes 
equities  "  was  written,  among  other  disqualificatory 
expressions,  on  Horace's  medical  history  sheet 
Persons  thus  afflicted  are  only  considered  fit  for  the 
General  Staff. 

As  no  hackney  carriage  was  easily  to  be  obtained 
at  the  barracks  the  return  journey  was  necessarily 
performed  on  foot.  Mr.  Muster  shuffled  along 
quite  cheerfully,  commenting  in  no  way  whatever 
on  his  recent  experiences.  For  two-thirds  of  their 
journey,  indeed,  he  uttered  no  speech  at  all ;  but, 
on  reaching  the  crowded  centre  of  the  town,  where 


AN  ABSENTEE  153 

shops  abounded,  he  stopped  with  his  usual  abruptness 
and  asked  a  very  sensible  question.     He  said  : 

"  Have  you  got  any  money  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?  "  replied  the  Derby  Dog. 

"  Because,  if  you  got  any,  I'll  'ave  some,"  said 
Horace. 

The  Derby  Dog  then  asked  what  Horace  proposed 
to  do  with  anj7  money  which  might  be  forthcoming, 
and  Horace  replied  as  follows  : 

"  Why,  to  cheer  me  up  like  where  I'm  goin'.  It's 
dark  down  there.  It  isn't  jolly.  They  don't  know 
what  He  suffered." 

This  statement  might  or  might  not  be  considered 
to  form  a  valid  reason  for  wanting  money ;  but  it 
was  evidently  the  only  statement  which  Horace  was 
prepared  to  make,  so  the  Derby  Dog  gave  him  half-a- 
crown. 

Horace  immediately  punched  him  in  the  back  and 
exclaimed  "  Hi,  buck  !  "  He  then  went  straightway 
into  another  flower-shop  and  bought  five  bunches 
of  daffodils.  If  the  Derby  Dog  felt  any  momentary 
chagrin  respecting  this  disposition  of  his  half-crown 
it  was  dissipated  by  the  cheery  enthusiasm  of  Horace 
when  he  explained  that  he  had  bought  these  flowers 
with  the  object  of  distributing  them  to  the  police. 
"  A  slop  with  a  flower  in  'is  'at,"  remarked  Horace 
truthfully,  "  is  somethin'  you  don't  often  see." 

He  shuffled  along  very  happily  after  that,  with  the 
daffodils  tied  to  his  bundle,  the  special  attributes  of 
which  they  greatly  modified,  And,  when  they 
reached  the  Town  Hall,  Horace  went  down  the  dark, 
stone  stairs  with  a  brisk  step,  and  on  reaching  the 


154  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

cellars  below  he  uttered  a  loud  "  Hi,  buck  !  "  and 
delivered  a  mighty  punch.  Then  Horace  took  the 
Derby  Dog  by  the  arm  and  led  him  up  to  a  policeman, 
saying : 

"  'Ere  y'are,  sergeant :    I've  brought  the  little 
beggar  back,  you  see." 


XIX 

Lucy's  Holiday 


A  RICH  lady  in  Kensington,  who  has  a  kindly  habit  ot 
remembering    my    existence    from    time    to    time, 
recently  wrote  me  a  letter  marked  "  Urgent." 
Here  are  some  extracts  from  that  letter : — 

" I    am    pleased   to   say    that 

another  dear  friend  of  mine — Lady  Sybil  Smee — 
is  also  greatly  interested  to  hear  of  you.  If  you  will 
send  me  the  titles  of  one  or  two  of  your  latest  books 
I  will  ask  Lady  Sybil  (providing  they  are  of  a  suitable 
character)  to  enquire  for  them  in  her  own  name  at  the 
library. 

"And,  by  the  way,  my  dear  boy,  there  is  a  small 
service  you  may  render  me.  The  person  who  sews 
for  me — Lucy  Tite — you  may  remember  her — she 
did  a  great  deal  of  plain  work  for  your  poor  mother — 
is  looking  far  from  well,  and  I  have  insisted  on  her 
going  into  the  country  for  a  week  or  two's  complete 
rest.  Kindly  secure  accommodation  for  her  at 
some  respectable  farm-house  in  your  neighbourhood, 
and  inform  the  people  that  the  rooms  are  for  the 

155 


156  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

dressmaker  of  Mrs.  Pott,  of  Kensington,  who  will 
defray  expenses.  I  wish  Lucy  to  begin  her  holiday 
not  later  than  the  day  after  to-morrow,  as  I  shall 
require  her  for  some  curtains  and  things  at  the  end 
of  next  week.  .  .  ." 

I  have  quoted  more  of  my  rich  patroness's  letter 
than  is  strictly  pertinent  to  the  facts  of  this  simple 
narrative,  because  I  hope  by  that  means  to  mark  my 
sense  of  obligation  to  her. 

As  for  Lucy  Tite,  I  should  jolly  well  hope  I  did 
remember  her.  It  was  Lucy  who  made  my  first 
shirt — a  definitely  masculine  garment,  with  buttons 
down  the  front.  And,  if  family  tradition  is  to  be 
credited,  she  sewed  each  one  of  its  less  specific  pre- 
decessors, not  excluding  the  regalia  employed  for 
my  inaugural  toilette. 

So,  I  lost  no  time  in  carrying  Mrs.  Pott's  epistle 
to  Mrs.  Winch,  of  Polecat  Farm,  who  is  my  nearest 
neighbour,  and  a  splendid  mother  to  her  children, 
with  a  perfect  hand  for  butter-making. 

Mrs.  Winch  received  me  in  her  parlour,  where 
everything  is  so  exactly  in  its  place  that  you  in- 
stinctively walk  round,  as  if  in  a  museum,  and  touch 
things.  First  you  touch  the  iron  candlesticks : 
three  big  ones  which  hang,  and  two  little  ones  which 
stand  erect  on  tatted  mats  ;  then  the  porcelain 
figure  of  Dick  Turpin  ;  then  the  porcelain  figure  of 
Tom  King.  After  stroking  this,  you  pass  on  to  the 
antimacassars,  three  in  a  row  upon  the  horse-hair 
sofa,  and  stroke  them,  leaving  yourself  at  liberty 
then  to  poke  the  chest  of  a  stuffed  owl  who  glares  at 
you  severely  from  a  wooden  perch  affixed  to  the 


LUCY'S  HOLIDAY  157 

oaken  centre-beam,  and  to  shudder  at  the  wicker 
arm-chairs  and  a  cabinet  of  dead  butterflies. 

Mrs.  Winch  was  prepared  to  consider  favourably 
the  proposal  of  receiving  Lucy  as  a  paying  guest. 
"  Tis  true,"  she  reflected,  "  as  I  areun't  'ad  neer 
a  lodger  'ere  for  seven  years  or  more — not  since  a 
furrin  lady  come  from  'Astings  and  brought  cats, 
but — tell  me,  sir,  be  there  e'er  a  cat  or  dog  along  of 
this  party  ?  " 

I  hastened  to  acquit  our  Lucy  of  cat  hunger. 

Mrs.  Winch  grew  visibly  more  cheerful.  "  They 
cats,"  she  explained,  "  they  do  be  so  rough  with 
their  clawses.  Be  this  a  married  party,  sir  ? 
Because  if  so  be  as  I  am  expected  to  'arbour  chil- 
dren  " 

"  No  children  !  "  I  ejaculated. 

Mrs.  Winch  grew  still  more  cheerful.  "  They  be 
so  rough  on  the  tablecloths  with  their  boots,  they 
gentlefolk's  children,"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  but,  if  so  be 
as  this  party  be  a  Sabbath-keeping  party,  and 
aren't  got  no  children  and  aren't  got  no  cats " 

"  You  will  be  pleased  to  receive  her  at  the  price 
agreed  upon  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Winch,  by  the  way  of  assent, 
"  I  often  'ave  to  think  to  myself  what  a  pity  that  be 
to  give  up  takin'  lodgers  at  Polecat  Farm,  what  with 
they  two  good  bedrooms  at  the  front  and  our  new 
vestibule,  and  what  not.  There  bean't  not  another 
farm  in  the  parish '  ave  got  a  vestibule  the  same  as  we . " 

And  so  the  bargain  was  struck.  Lucy  Tite  came 
down  on  the  following  morning.  Of  course,  I  went 
to  meet  her  at  the  station,  and,  of  course,  I  got  there 


158  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

rather  late.  I  found  her  in  the  station  yard  snapping 
viciously  at  a  hard  biscuit,  whilst  Benny  Pearce,  our 
youthful  fly-driver,  conveyed  her  luggage,  with 
deliberation  and  ceremony,  to  the  box  seat  of  the 

fly. 

"  So  you  'ave  come,  sir,"  remarked  Miss  Tite, 
when  I  had  made  my  obeisance.  "  I  should  like 
to  have  a  friendly  talk  with  'ooever  darns  your 
stockings.  Is  it  the  gardener  ?  " 

I  replied  with  another  question.  "  What  is 
inside  that  box  ?  "  I  asked,  pointing  to  the  boy 
Benny,  whose  narrow  shoulders  were  supporting, 
with  difficulty,  a  curiously  shaped  coffer. 

"  Me  sewin' -machine,"  responded  Lucy.  "  You 
don't  suppose  I  was  goin'  ter  leave  that  at  home,  do 
you  ?  " 

I  have  heard  that  ladies  like  to  have  their  little 
things  around  them  when  they  travel,  and  so  I 
made  no  comment  on  this  explanation. 

"  A  piece  of  tomfoolery,  I  call  it,  me  comin'  away 
at  all,"  continued  Lucy.  "  I'm  all  right ;  never  felt 
better  ;  and  I  never  was  struck  on  cows  and  'edges 
and  'aystacks.  She  must  do  good  to  somebody, 
your  aunt :  I  knew  she'd  start  on  me  sooner  or 
later." 

Miss  Tite's  reflections  were  at  this  stage  cut  short 
by  Benny,  who  invited  us  to  enter  the  postchaise. 
Lucy,  seating  herself  forcibly,  as  performing  an 
act  repugnant  to  her  feelings,  was  immediately 
provoked  to  further  discontentment  by  discovering 
signs  of  neglect  in  the  fringed  cotton  slip  which 
covered  the  front  seats  of  the  landau.  "  That  thing 


LUCY'S  HOLIDAY  159 

could  do  with  a  bit  of  attention,"  she  remarked. 
"  It  ain't  been  darned  since  the  time  of  Queen  Anne, 
I  should  think." 

I  begged  her  to  take  comfort  in  the  thought  that 
many  worse  cases  of  the  same  kind  had  come  under 
my  notice ;  but  she  merely  sniffed.  I  called  her 
attention  to  many  attractive  features  of  the 
landscape  :  to  some  thatched  cottages,  a  vast 
house,  some  well-nourished  pigs,  some  brilliant 
cloud  effects.,  and  to  the  remains  of  a  handsome 
gallows-post,  on  which  it  was  at  one  time  cus- 
tomary to  hang  politicians.  But  none  of  these 
diversions  diverted  Lucy  from  her  humour  of 
complaint.  Only  when  we  actually  arrived  at 
Polecat  Farm  did  any  sign  of  improvement  exhibit 
itself.  There,  as  she  slowly  descended  from  our 
chariot,  my  anxious  ear  detected  a  faint,  faint  sigh 
as  of  satisfaction. 

"  It's  a  relief,  at  ennerate,  to  get  away  from  the 
sight  of  that  ragged  old  ticking,"  she  observed. 

I  left  her  then,  having  presented  her  with  proper 
ceremony  to  all  the  household  of  Polecat  Farm. 
Mrs.  Winch  invited  me  cordially  to  stop  and  take 
tea  with  them  all.  But  I  have  had  a  wide  ex- 
perience of  farm-house  tea,  and  I  knew,  besides,  that 
Lucy  has  an  objection — based  upon  no  principle 
of  servility — against  partaking  of  food  in  the  com- 
pany of  what  she  calls  "  the  upstairs  sort." 

Next  morning  I  called  at  the  farm,  hoping  to 
assure  myself  that  Lucy  had  "  settled  down  "  and 
that  her  spirits  had  been  restored  to  their  natural 
brightness.  But  I  was  disappointed  in  that  hope. 


160  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

Lucy  met  with  me  a  countenance  free  from  anger, 
but  distinctly  peaked  and  woeful. 

"  Oh,  I'm  comfortable  enough,"  she  declared ; 
"  quite  comfortable,  but — well,  I  dunno  !  It's  a 
tidy  place,  and  very  clean  ;  she  seems  to  be  a  decent 
needlewoman,  too.  Nothing,  as  I  can  see,  that 
anybody  could  find  fault  with.  But — well,  I 
dunno ! 

"She  ain't  got  much  to  say,  of  course.  But  Mr. 
Winch  is  quite  a  pleasant-mannered  man.  He 
seems  to  be  a  considerate  man ;  he  takes  a  lot  of 
trouble  to  try  and  entertain  a  person.  He  showed 
me  a  cow  this  morning,  and  a  little  later  he  showed 
me  a  calf.  I've  just  got  back  from  a  walk  up  the 
lane  with  'im  to  look  at  another  novelty — the 
Baptist  chapel.  I'm  to  see  some  sheep  this  after- 
noon if  it  keeps  fine." 

Upon  the  following  morning  I  again  went  round  to 
Lucy,  again  hoping  for  better  things.  But  this 
time  my  hopes  were  dashed  as  soon  as  ever  I  arrived 
at  the  farmyard  gate,  for  here  I  was  met  by  Mrs. 
Winch,  in  pursuit  of  recalcitrant  piglings.  "  Goin' 
in  to  see  the  lady  ?  "  hazarded  Mrs.  Winch.  "  Well, 
'tis  a  good  job  you  come  round  for  I  bin  thinkin'  as 
somebody  had  oughter  send  for  a  doctor.  She 
don't  pick  up  at  all.  Sim  reglar  mopish,  she  do, 
and  there's  naarthun'  in  the  shape  o'  food  don't  sim 
to  tempt  'er,  neether." 

Lucy,  looking  positively  tragic,  met  me  on  the 
doorstep.  "  Look  here,  sir,"  said  Lucy,  "  I  want 
you  to  send  me  home.  These  'olidays  ain't  in  my 
line.  I — I  dunno  what  it  is,  but — I  seem — I  seem 


LUCY'S  HOLIDAY  161 

to  feel  reglar  wretched.  I "  the  rest  was 

tears. 

When  we  had  dried  things  up  a  bit,  Lucy  made  a 
startling  proposition.  "  I — I  think,"  she  declared — 
"  mind  you,  I  only  say  as  I  think — there's  one  thing 
would  make  me  feel  better.  I  believe  I'd  be  right 
in  five  minutes  if  on'y  you  would  catch  that  little 
boy  there— the  one  that  stands  be  himself  in  the 
pigsty — him  they  call  Bert.  Catch  'im,  sir,  and 
bring  'im  'ere.  /  want  'is  little  trousies  I 

"  No,"  continued  Lucy,  "  I  ain't  gorn  mad ; 
you  needn't  look  like  that.  What  I  want,  sir,  is  a 
bit  o'  sewin'  to  keep  myself  alive.  There  isn't  a 
thing  in  the  place — not  even  a  duster — what  needs 
a  stitch,  on'y  that  boy's  trousies — and  the  old  man's, 
on'y  I  don't  'ardly — like — to — ask — for  'is.  Now, 
do  oblige  me,  sir,  and  fetch  the  little  fellar  'ere." 

When,  a  little  later,  I  walked  out  of  the  farm-yard 
gate,  all  the  varied  noises  of  the  countryside  were 
drowned  by  a  strange  new  melody — the  sound  of 
Lucy's  voice,  lifted  in  song,  and  accompanied  by  the 
whirr,  whirr,  whirr  of  her  sewing-machine. 

And  when,  this  very  morning,  I  went  back  again, 
there  was  Lucy  still  hard  at  it  in  the  porch,  whilst  Mr. 
Winch,  wearing  his  Sunday  blacks  and  a  ritualistic 
expression,  lolled  by  her  side  and  gazed  upon  the 
flying  wheel  with  ever  growing  wonder. 

"  What !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  they  are  not  finished  yet  ?  " 

Lucy  looked  up.  The  October  sun  shone  full  voon 
her  fading  hair,  and  upon  the  autumn  fall  of  vine 
and  creeper,  too.  Lucy  looked  up.  Her  eyes  were 

L 


162  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

wrinkled  with  laughter.  And  her  mouth  was  full 
of  pins. 

"  Them  little  things  !  "  she  cried,  referring  to  my 
question.  "  Why  I  run  them  off  last  night.  This 
is — this  is  another  affair."  She  winked,  while 
Mr.  Winch  was  suddenly  assailed  with  a  disagreeable 
cough. 

"  Ain't  it  a  splendid  day  ?  "  continued  Lucy, 
speaking  thickly,  by  reason  of  the  pins.  "  This,  I 
say,  is  something  like  a  day.  This  is  proper  holiday 
weather."  "  Whirr,  whirr,  whirr  !  "  assented  the 
wheel.  "  Oh  dear,"  continued  Lucy  (whirr,  whirr, 
whirr  !),  "I  wish  I  could  always  amuse  meself  like 
this.  I  call  it  simply  grand  \  " 

"  Well,"  she  continued  ("  Whirr  !  "  echoed  the 
wheel),  "  I  shall  have  to  make  the  best  of  this 
holiday :  of  these  three  days.  On  Friday,  I've 
gotter  go  back  to  work  again !  " 


XX 

Persuasion 


ON  a  gloomy  afternoon,  in  the  autumn  of  1915 — 
which  was  a  gloomy  autumn — I  was  taken  by  a 
small  niece  into  what  is  called  a  Picture  Theatre. 
Here  we  sat  for  two  hours,  waiting  for  a  certain  Mr. 
Bunny,  while  the  darkness  flickered,  and  homeless 
heroines,  prairie  mustangs,  comic  firemen  dithered 
past  us,  black  on  white,  as  if  a  nervous  boy  were 
rattling  an  ebony  walking-stick  across  white  railings 

I  don't  think  we  actually  saw  the  Mr.  Bunny  in 
question,  because,  ere  we  had  sat  for  more  than  two 
hours,  an  interruption  occurred. 

It  was  a  military  interruption,  and  when  the 
lights  went  up  I  saw  that  it  was  being  produced  by  a 
soldier  with  a  bugle.  He  was  blowing  out  great 
brassy  gusts  of  sound :  high-spirited  sound — the 
"Charge!"  I  think. 

The  sudden  accession  of  light  which  displayed  to 
me  this  soldier  and  his  bugle  displayed  also  other 
things,  as,  for  example,  an  almost  empty  hall,  a  boy 
in  blue  and  silver  with  a  tray  containing  chocolates 

163 


164  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

strapped  to  his  person,  and  a  very  young  and  proud 
and  upright  little  officer,  who  stood  beside  the  bugler. 

When  I  had  looked  at  the  bugler  and  the  little 
chocolate-boy  and  the  little  officer,  I  looked  about 
me  at  the  almost  empty  hall,  and  I  saw  that  it  was 
sparsely  peopled  by  women  and  children  and  a  few 
Italian  waiters. 

To  his  sparse  audience  the  little  officer  addressed 
himself.  He  climbed  on  to  a  platform  in  front  of  the 
white  sheet  upon  which  the  shadows  had  been 
flickering.  The  little  officer  lifted  a  little  cane,  and 
the  bugler,  standing  just  below  him  on  the  floor  of 
the  hall,  finished  up  his  "call"  with  a  deafening 
flourish  and  lowered  his  bugle. 

The  little  officer  then  looked  at  us  all  very  sternly 
and  spoke.  This,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and 
belief,  is  a  literal  transcription  of  the  words  which  he 
spoke : 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen.  Hem  !  I  am — hem  ! — 
sorrah  to  interrupt  yahr  little  amusements,  but  there 
is  a  war  goin'  on  in  Belgium  and  other  places,  and  I 
want  to  say  a  few  wahds. 

"  It  just  comes  to  this.  While  all  you  people  are 
sittin'  heah  amusin'  yahselves,  the  country  is  at  war 
— fightin'  for  its  existence  and  men  are  needed  to 
carry  on  the  war. 

"  I  am  sorrah  to  interrupt  yahr  little  anusements, 
but  if  you  think  you  can  all  sit  heah,  amusin'  yahr- 
selves,  while  other  people  do  the  work,  you  are  all 
mistaken.  You  men  sittin'  there — if  you  call 
yahselves  men — are  all  wanted  to  go  and  help  the 
men  who  have  shown  a  little  British  pluck  :  the 


PERSUASION  165 

men  who  are  fightin'  now  in  Flanders  for  their  King 
and  Country,  as  you  would  be,  if  you  were  men, 
instead  of  sittin'  heah  amusin'  yahseives. 

"  Of  course,  you  men,  who  are  sittin'  heah  to-day, 
lookin'  at  pictures  while  yahr  country  is  in  danger, 
you  can  please  yahseives  about  joinin',  but  I'm  sure 
I  don't  know  what  you  call  yahrselves,  sittin'  theah 
while  yahr  country  is  in  danger  and  men  are  dying  by 
the  thousand.  And  I  may  as  well  say  that  you 
won't  always  be  allowed  to  go  on  like  this.  The 
time  is  not  far  off,  I  am  glad  to  say,  when  those  who 
do  not  join  us  of  their  own  free  will  will  jolly  well  be 
fetched.  There  will  be  conscription  and  that  will 
mean  an  end  of  picture  theatres  for  some  of  ya.  I 
don't  know  what  you  call  yahseives,  I'm  sure, 
sittin'  heah  like  this  while  yahr  country  is  in  danger. 

"  I  wonder  what  you'll  think  about  it  if  the 
Germans  get  here.  Some  of  you  will  look  very 
funny  then.  I  don't  know  what  you  call  yahseives, 
I'm  sure. 

"  Now,  the  reg'ment  I  belong  to  is  the  Umptah- 
second  Royal  West  Umpshires  and  we  have  room  for 
250  men  to  fill  up  vacancies  in  our  third  battalion. 
This  regiment  has  got  one  of  the  most  splendid 
records  in  the  Army,  and  a  month  or  two  ago  we  were 
full  up,  and  if  any  of  you  men  heah,  if  you  call  yah- 
seives men,  had  offered  to  join  us  we  were  full  up, 
and  you  would  have  had  to  join  some  other  regiment. 
But  we  have  just  sent  a  big  draft  to  the  front,  and 
so  we  have  vacancies  for  250  men  in  our  third 
battalion.  So  theah's  a  chance  for  some  of  you  men, 
or  whatevah  you  call  yahseives,  to  join  one  of  the 


166  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

smartest  regiments  in  the  Army,  and  anybody  that 
thinks  he's  looked  at  pictures  long  enough  while  'is 
country  is  in  danger  can  join  this  reg'ment  to-day. 

"  I  am  to  be  found  in  the  office  outside  and  I'll 
answer  any  questions.  I  don't  see  anybody  movin'. 
You  don't  seem  in  a  hurry.  I  can  only  say  I  don't 
know  what  you  call  yahselves.  I'm  ashamed  of 
you." 

Having  uttered  these  few  words,  the  little  officer 
descended  from  the  platform  and  marched  stiffly  out 
of  the  hall,  followed  by  his  bugler. 

A  few  weeks  later,  the  newspapers  proclaimed 
that  the  principle  of  voluntary  enlistment  was  wrong. 


XXI 

Zenobia 


A  NUMBER  of  my  intimate  friends  were  recently  so 
kind  as  to  pass  a  special  resolution  in  my  interest. 
They  held  an  extraordinary  general  meeting,  and 
decided  that  I  ought  to  buy  a  donkey.  So  I  bought 
a  donkey,  and  I  think  she  is  for  sale. 

Her  name  is  Zenobia. 

It  was  Jack  Be  van  who  first  acquainted  me  with 
the  verdict  and  sentence  of  the  tribunal  to  which  I 
have  referred.  "  Taffy  and  Fitzgerald  and  I,"  he 
said,  "  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  week-ends 
with  you  are  spoilt  by  the  difficulties  of  transport. 
You  ought  to  get  a  smart  little  donkey  and  a  little 
cart." 

I  said  :  "  Ought  I  ?  " 

"  If  you  went  about  it  properly,"  continued  Mr. 
Bevan,  "  you  could  get  a  little  beauty — something 
very  '  blood  '  indeed — for  about  a  fiver." 

I  said :  "  Could  I  ?  " 

"  Only,"  pursued  my  instructor,  "  you  must  go 
to  London  for  it." 

167 


168  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

I  said  :   "  Must  I  ?  " 

"  You  see,"  explained  Mr.  Bevan,  "  these  country 
beggars  haven't  any  notion  of  the  potentialities  of 
the  donkey.  They  spoil  their  donkeys  by  over- 
working them  and  underfeeding  them  and  not 
grooming  them  and  hitting  them  and — all  that  sort 
of  thing." 

I  said  :   "  Do  they  ?  " 

"  What  you  want,"  said  Mr.  Bevan,  "  is  a  coster- 
monger's  donkey.  Taffy  Jenkins  says  that  the 
costermonger's  donkey  is  the  Arab  of  its  species  ; 
and  Taffy  breeds  Airedales,  so  he  ought  to  know. 
With  your  knowledge  of  the  East  End,  you  ought  to 
be  able  to  find  a  rather  special  thing.  Why  don't 
you  write  to  that  doctor  pal  of  yours  to  get  him  to 
enquire  amongst  his  grateful  patients  ?  By  jove, 
that's  a  good  idea  !  Write  him  now.  /'//  post  the 
letter  for  you  when  I  get  to  town." 

"  Will  you  ?  "  I  said  :  and  obediently  wrote  the 
letter. 

My  friend,  Doctor  Brink,  who  is  what  they  call  a 
"  sixpenny  surgeon,"  and  who  does  it  for  that  sum, 
all  day  long,  week  in  and  week  out,  medicine  and  a 
top  hat  included,  speedily  answered  my  letter. 

"  The  man,"  he  wrote,  "  who  plugs  my  gaspipes 
when  they  leak,  and  who  disconnects  them  when 
they  don't,  has  a  niece  who  is  married  to  a  publican 
who  knows  a  potato  merchant  who  has  the  very 
thing.  Come  up  at  once." 

I  accordingly  went  up  that  night,  and  by  four 
o'clock  the  following  afternoon  I  had  bought 
Zenobia. 


ZEKOBIA  169 

I  don't  know  why  I  bought  her,  or  what  I  paid  for 
her,  My  recollections  of  the  episode  are  confused. 
You  see,  they  brought  Zenobia  to  my  friend's  door — 
to  his  surgery  door — and  all  the  people  and  little 
boys  who  live  in  Doringdon  Street  came  out  to  see  me 
buy  her.  Mr.  Sevan,  Fitzgerald,  and  Taffy  (accom- 
panied by  five  rough-coated  dogs)  were  also  there. 

All  that  I  clearly  remember  is  that  I  felt  Zenobia's 
legs.  Her  owner,  the  potato  merchant,  made  me  feel 
them.  He  said  : 

"  Jest  run  ye're  'ands  down  there,  young  feller. 
Go  on.  Do  as  I  tell  you.  You  feel  'er  legs.  Go 
on." 

"  Go  on,  old  dear — feel  'er  legs,"  repeated  a 
number  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  were  unknown 
to  me.  "  Hand  the  doctor  ye're  watch  and  let  'im 
feel  'em,"  said  somebody  else. 

The  potato  merchant  ignored  these  interrupters. 
He  came  close  to  me — so  close  that  I  was  privileged 
to  know  that  he  had  lunched — and  he  spoke  to  me 
again,  from  between  clenched  teeth. 

"  You  do  as  I  tell  you,"  he  said  ;  "  you  feel  'er 
legs.  Go  on  !  " 

I  approached  Zenobia,  and  gently  patted  her 
forelegs,  amid  cheers  from  the  crowd. 

"  Theer  !  "  cried  the  potato  merchant — "  'Ow's 
that  ?  " 

"  'Ow's  that,  sonny  ?  "  demanded  the  audience. 

"  Now,"  continued  the  potato  merchant  turning 
to  Fitzgerald,  whom  he  evidently  recognised  to  be  a 
more  real  and  substantial  person  than  myself — 
"  'Ook  up  them  'ugly  dawgs  and  I'll  talk  business." 


170  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

They  talked  a  lot  of  business — Jack  and  Taffy  and 
Fitzgerald  and  the  potato-man — while  I  stood  apart 
and  thought  about  my  mother.  A  lot  of  strange 
young  women  came  round  and  giggled,  and  one  of 
them  asked  me  in  tones  of  earnest  entreaty  to  tell 
her  if  I  had  any  brothers. 

Presently  Bevan  came  up  and  told  them  to  go 
away.  He  said  to  me  :  "  It  is  all  right.  We've 
nearly  fixed  it.  There's  only  the  question  of  the  cart 
to  be  settled  now.  He's  gone  round  the  corner  to  a 
friend's  to  fetch  another  cart.  The  one  he's  brought 
is  no  good." 

I  nodded  wisely.  "  Also,"  I  said,  "  it  smells  of 
potatoes." 

In  a  little  while  the  man  came  back  with  another 
cart — a  coster's  barrow  like  the  one  which  Fitzgerald 
had  condemned,  but  newer  and  lighter  and  having 
green  shafts.  This  one  smelt  of  onions. 

Fitzgerald  looked  at  it  carefully  and  then  shook 
his  head,  The  potato  merchant  thereupon  whistled, 
and  a  man  came  pushing  through  the  crowd  with  a 
third  barrow — having  red  shafts  and  smelling  of 
oysters. 

On  seeing  this  vehicle  Fitzgerald  brightened  up. 
He  said,  "  This  is  just  the  thing." 

The  potato  merchant  then  walked  up  to  me,  and, 
after  working  his  lips  in  a  strange  manner  for  some 
moments,  spat  out  a  penny  stamp,  which  he  cleverly 
caught  on  his  thumb  and  thence  transferred  to  a 
piece  of  dirty  paper.  "  Ere's  yer  receipt,"  he  said. 
"  It  comes  to  twelve  pound  ten  in  all." 

"  That  includes  everything,"  explained  Fitzgerald 


ZENOBIA  171 

at  my  elbow — "  donkey,  cart,  harness,  curry- 
combs, and  portion  of  whip." 

Still  thinking  of  my  mother,  I  paid  the  man  his 
money. 

Then  we  brought  Zenobia  here,  to  her  new  home 
at  the  foot  of  the  South  Downs. 

I  will  spare  you  the  harrowing  particulars  of  her 
entrainment  at  Victoria  Station.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  a  number  of  waiting  cabmen  were  edified. 

It  was  not  until  we  disentrained  (at  midnight) 
in  Arcady  that  I  ceased  to  think  of  my  mother. 
Then  I  had  other  things  to  think  about. 

She  got  out  of  her  loose  box  quite  quietly.  She 
walked  along  the  platform  and  out  through  the 
"  goods  "  entrance  and  looked  respectfully  at  a  gas- 
lamp  and  brayed — a  distinct  and  powerful,  but  a 
somewhat  mirthless  bray  it  was. 

She  quietly  stood  while  the  smell  of  oysters  was 
brought  up  and  harnessed  to  her.  She  allowed  us 
to  lead  her  gently  forth.  And  then — the  gas  lamp 
suddenly  went  out.  Just  as  suddenly  Zenobia  sat 
down. 

We  struck  a  match,  and  perceived  that  she  was 
trembling.  Also,  she  had  broken  out  into  a  profuse 
and  palpable  sweat. 

"  This,"  said  Fitzgerald,  "  is  rather  a  strange 
performance," 

"  Quite  remarkable,"  assented  Taffy. 

"  She's  a  London  donkey,  ain't  she  ?  "  enquired 
a  voice  from  the  darkness.  We  struck  another 
match,  and  beheld  the  Cockney  porter. 

"  Them  London  cuckoos,"  he  explained,  "always 


172  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

'as  convulsions  when  they  gits  out  into  the  kentry 
after  dark,  They  ain't  used  to  the  dark,  you  see. 
They  misses  the  good  old  lamp-posts." 

"  But  I  say — dammit — what  are  we  to  do  ?  " 
demanded  Fitzgerald. 

"  I'll  lend  you  a  lamp,  sir,"  said  the  porter, 
"  and  you'll  'ave  to  tempt  'er." 

We  accordingly  sent  him  for  the  lamp,  and  temp- 
ted her.  But  the  temptation  wasn't  big  enough. 
She  cheered  up  a  little  and  left  off  trembling,  but  she 
didn't  move. 

So  we  sent  the  porter  for  another  lamp. 
The  effect  of  additional  candle-power  was  dis- 
tinctly encouraging.     Zenobia  sat  up  and  brayed 
again.     But  even  now  she  refused  to  get  up  and  walk. 
"  Try  'er  with  a  call  or  two,"  suggested  the  porter. 
We  asked  him  what  a  "  call "  might  be. 
"  This  way,"  said  the  porter,  raising  his  voice  : — 
Rabbit  skins,  oohh  ! 
Buy  a  rabbit,  a  rabbit  ? 
Chimney  sweep  ! 
Crab,  crab,  any  crab  ? 
Fresh  oysters,  oh ! 
Any  speregas  ? 
Ripe  speregas  ! 

As  he  spoke  these  words,  the  cockney  porter 
turned  him  round,  and,  holding  a  lantern  in  each 
hand,  walked  slowly  forward. 

Zenobia,  shaking  herself  violently,  got  up  and 
followed  him. 

He  left  us  just  outside  the  station  yard,  but 
Zenobia  sat  down  again.  So  we  shouted  to  the 


ZENOBIA  173 

porter,  and  he  came  back,  and  we  bribed  him  heavily 
to  walk  Zenobia  home. 

Her  home  is  five  miles  distant  from  the  railway 
station,  over  rough  heath  paths  and  sludgy,  dripping 
lanes  :  and  it  was  raining  and  the  night  was  bitter 
cold  and  oven-black. 

And  the  porter  was  a  realist.  He  walked  at  the 
true  costermonger's  pace,  which  is  something  slower 
than  that  of  a  telegraph  boy. 

Zenobia  also  was  a  realist.  She  stopped  at  every 
house,  at  every  wayside  barn  or  cottage  upon  the 
route  of  procession,  until  the  porter  had  sung  his 
song  three  times. 

These  events  were  the  events  of  yesternight.  They 
seem  to  have  happened  a  hundred  years  ago.  Now, 
as  I  write  these  lines,  the  voice  of  Fitzgerald  is  borne 
unto  my  ears  upon  the  evening  air.  He  is  trying  to 
lure  Zenobia  from  her  pen. 

Buy  a  rabbit,  buy  a  rabit  ? 
Crab,  crab,  any  crab  ? 

are  the  impassioned  words  which  he  is  uttering  in 
very  earnest  tones. 

If  we  can  get  her  to  the  cottage  door,  and  if 
Fitzgerald's  voice  last  out,  I  am  going  to  sit  inside 
the  barrow  and  be  wafted  through  the  oyster-laden 
air  to  the  railway  station,  there  to  dispatch  this 
statement.  If  you  see  it  in  this  book,  you  will  know 
that  we  have  got  there. 

But,  on  the  whole,  I  think  that  Zenobia  is  for  sale 


XXII 

The   Frights 


IN  a  respectable  market-town,  in  a  southern  county, 
I  was  lately  drinking  beer.  And,  while  I  was  drink- 
ing, I  saw  something  extraordinary. 

It  was  of  a  twofold  character,  and  consisted  of  two 
objects :  (a)  male ;  (b)  female.  Both  objects  were 
comprised  within  the  same  framework — namely,  a 
slap-up  dogcart,  with  red  wheels,  drawn  by  15.2  of 
mincing  roan,  who,  or  which  (being  female) ,  having 
beheld  the  red-brick  frontage  of  the  Dargison  Arms, 
and  me,  outside  it,  drinking  beer,  nearly  minced 
them  into  a  plate-glass  window,  the  property 
of  an  auctioneer. 

The  male  object,  who  had  a  pale,  clean-shaven, 
emotional  countenance,  like  that  of  an  actor,  and 
velvet  knickerbockers,  and  a  velvet  hat,  which  was 
illustrated  by  a  wing  portion  of  partridge,  drove  the 
nervous  mare ;  and  the  other  object,  a  lady,  sat 
beside  him,  and  behaved  accordingly. 

When  I  say  that  the  lady  behaved  accordingly, 
174 


THE  FRIGHTS  175 

I  mean  to  say  that  she  behaved  according  to  the 
example  and  precedent  set  by  the  man.  And  the 
man  set  astounding  examples  and  precedents. 

To  begin  with,  he  smiled  at  everybody.  He 
smiled  at  everybody  in  a  particular  manner,  a  manner 
which,  if  I  may  say  so,  without  giving  offence  to  the 
matron,  suggested  Piccadilly.  And  the  lady  who 
was  with  him  reproduced  this  smile. 

There  they  sat,  in  their  very  high  dog-cart,  smiling 
in  a  confidential,  significant,  heart-to-heart  manner 
at  everybody  in  that  market-town  :  at  Mr.  Mudge, 
the  Vicar,  at  Mr.  Donkin,  the  draper,  at  Avery,  the 
auctioneer,  at  Mink,  the  greengrocer,  at  Moggridge, 
the  builder,  and  at  me,  with  my  pot  of  beer. 

The  Dargison  Arms,  upon  the  steps  of  which  famed 
edifice  I  happened  to  be  situated,  is  always  watched 
and  guarded  by  a  company  of  keen-eyed,  beardless 
men,  in  constricted  trousering,  who  wink  continually 
and  suck  old  straws.  Some  of  these  persons  now 
went  forward  ;  one  took  the  head  of  the  mincing 
mare,  another  erected  a  step-ladder,  a  third  put  a 
wicker  shield  against  the  gaudy  wheel.  And  the 
smirking  gentleman  and  the  smirking  lady  then 
alighted  from  their  equipage  and  trod  the  common 
clay.  But  they  did  not  leave  off  smirking. 

Having  swayed  about  a  bit  in  the  roadway,  as  was 
becoming  to  persons  treading  an  unfamiliar  substance, 
they  then  walked  slowly  forward,  readjusting  and 
emphasizing  the  smirk  as  they  did  so.  The  male 
half  walked  in  front,  smiling  everywhere  and  some- 
times raising  his  plumed  hat,  to  disclose  a  little  white 
curl  on  a  bald  forehead.  He  smiled  with  particular 


176  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

energy  at  young  women,  and  with  overwhelming 
distinctness  at  little  girls,  to  whom  he  sometimes 
addressed  himself  in  speech,  uttering  snatches  of 
badinage,  such  as  : 

"  Good  morning,  Little  Red  Ridinghood  !  And 
where  may  you  be  off  to,  so  early  in  the  morning  ?  " 

"  To  the  station,  if  you  please,  sir,"  the  little  girl 
would  answer.  To  which  the  smiling  gentleman, 
still  smiling,  then  rejoined  : 

"  Then  be  careful  of  the  great  big  engines.  They 
might  run  over  you  !  " 

Close  behind  him  the  lady  walked.  She,  too, 
smiled  always.  Her  smiles  were  particularly  direc- 
ted to  very  old  women  and  very  young  men.  It  was 
the  smile  of  unspoken  sympathy  which  the  old 
women  received.  It  did  their  coughs  good.  But 
the  young  men  got  a  little,  fleeting  tribute  from  the 
corner  of  her  eye  :  a  half-clandestine  greeting,  which 
they  appeared  to  accept  with  varying  degrees  of 
embarrassment  and  pleasure.  Some  of  them  fum- 
bled, nervously,  in  their  waistcoat  pockets,  and  it 
seemed,  to  my  coarse  mind,  that  they  were  fumbling 
for  guineas. 

Well,  these  twin  Frights  paraded  the  High  Street 
of  this  respectable  market  town,  smirking  and 
ogling  at  everybody.  They  made  little  purchases. 
They  bought  a  pound  of  grapes,  a  newspaper,  some 
sewing  silk,  a  box  of  cough  lozenges,  and  two  little 
woolly  dolls  which  they  presented  to  two  little  dirty 
babies  in  a  public  manner,  on  the  public  square, 
simpering,  squirming,  and  ogling  as  they  did  so. 

I  followed  in  the  wake  of  this  remarkable  couple, 


THE  FRIGHTS  177 

being  actuated  by  a  professional  thirst  for  drama 
and  psychology.  They  were  the  subject  of  a  great 
deal  of  winking  comment  from  the  regular  in- 
habitants of  the  town,  but  they  were  not  publicly 
molested  or  insulted,  a  fact  which  I  attributed  to 
their  evident  wealth. 

Having  reached  the  public  square,  and  having 
there  published  their  benevolent  interest  in  wool, 
these  two  peculiar  persons  then  turned  round  and 
retraced  their  steps  along  the  High  Street.  Again 
I  followed  them,  and  again  I  was  surprised.  They 
now  walked  exceedingly  slowly,  squirming  and 
simpering  more  than  ever,  and  often  stopping  to 
conduct  convulsive  dialogues  with  tradesmen  and 
other  citizens. 

The  male  Fright  stopped  at  the  open  door  of 
Mr.  Tunks'  shop.  Mr.  Tunks  is  a  plumber  and  the 
owner  of  a  hot-air  engine :  the  only  hot-air  engine 
which  exists  in  this  town,  and  perhaps  in  this 
county.  It  is  naturally  a  rather  celebrated  hot-air 
engine,  and  Mr.  Tunks  is  proud  of  it,  and  shows  it 
many  little  attentions  ;  and  he  was  thus  occupied 
when  The  Fright  accosted  him.  , 

"Ha!  ha!"  exclaimed  The  Fright,  wriggling, 
simpering,  and  jerking  off  his  hat.  "Ha!  ha!  Mr. 
Tunks  !  And  how  is  Mr.  Tunks  ?  " 

Mr.  Tunks  who  lay  prostrate  before  his  engine, 
having  in  one  hand  a  metal  spanner  and  in  the  other 
a  vessel  containing  oil,  looked  up,  and,  beholding  the 
wriggle  and  the  smile,  said  :  "  Eh  ?  " 

"  And  how  is  Mr.  Tunks  ?  "  repeated  his  twittering 
visitor. 


178  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tunks  again.  The  hot-air 
engine  was  "  ticking  over,"  and  it  was  ticking  over 
with  a  vehemence  which  precluded  the  facile  inter- 
change of  ideas. 

The  effervescing  gentleman  said  his  little  speech 
again,  at  which  Mr.  Tunks,  getting  up  from  the  floor, 
clutched  at  a  lever  and  arrested  the  activities  of  his 
engine. 

"  Boy  !  "  he  shouted.  "  You  keep  your  finger 
where  I  told  you.  Don't  let  goo.  Watch  that  jint ! 
Keep  a  tight  holt,  mind.  .  .  .  And  now,  sir," 
he  added,  turning  to  the  ever-smiling  one.  "  And 
now,  sir  :  well,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  merely  said,  "replied  that  gentleman,  pulsating 
with  pleasantry,  "  '  and  how  is  Mr.  Tunks  ?  '  And 
how  is  Mr.  Tunks  ?  " 

"  Oh,  rats !  "  responded  Mr.  Tunks,  causing  the 
engine  to  begin  again  and  throwing  himself  on  the 
floor. 

The  Fright,  with  a  paroxysmal  smile,  then  resumed 
his  walk,  sniggering,  bowing,  bobbing,  pulsating 
at  everybody,  jerking  off  his  hat,  uttering  complacent 
noises.  Behind  him  walked  his  glad-eyed  lady. 

Being  unable  any  longer  to  contain  my  curiosity, 
I  spoke  to  a  little  boy. 

I  said  to  him :  "  Who  are  those  extraordinary 
people  ?  " 

"  Which  uns  ?  "  demanded  the  boy. 

"  That  man  and  woman  over  there,"  I  answered. 
"  Those  nervous,  jiggerty  people  with  the  St. 
Vitus's  smile  ?  " 

"  Them,"  answered  the  boy."  Why,  that's  our 
Member  of  Parliament  and  'er's  'is  wife." 


XXIII 

Parafark 


You  remember  my  donkey,  Zenobia.  She  was  my 
pet,  my  prize,  my  Mile  End  Canary,  who  took  the 
carrot  for  voice  production  in  open  competition 
against  the  elect  of  five  parishes.  I  know  I  have 
written  preceding  anecdotes  about  the  old  girl,  for, 
when  she  lived  with  us,  I  thought  of  nothing  else. 
I  hadn't  the  time. 

Zenobia  has  now,  alas  !  gone  from  me,  under 
circumstances  too  pitiful  to  relate  ;  but,  until  Fate 
parted  us,  we  were  deeply  intimate.  I  call  a  cele- 
brated Thinker  to  witness  whether  he  himself  has 
not  beheld  Zenobia  standing  on  three  legs  in  my 
sitting-room,  performing  gestures  of  welcome,  and  at 
the  same  time  emitting  the  chorus  of  a  college  song, 
to  which  he  (the  Thinker)  listened  with  profound 
astonishment.  Every  morning  in  summer,  Zenobia 
followed  the  early  tea  into  my  bedroom,  and  drank 
out  of  my  saucer,  besides  taking  tribute  from  my 
sugar-bowl.  She  would  follow  me  about  the  garden, 
and  could  be  trusted  with  all  things  save  the  very 
young  rose-shoots.  Or  she  would  stand  on  the 

179 


i8o  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

verandah,  demurely  and  patiently,  for  hours  at  a 
time,  while  I  read  or  gossiped.  But  whenever  Mr. 
Tracey  came  to  "  do  "  the  garden  in  a  hat  more  than 
ordinarily  objectionable,  Zenobia  would  give  me  a 
sly  little  dig  with  her  foot,  and  slide  up  to  Mr. 
Tracey,  and  bite  the  hat  off  his  head.  Mr.  Tracey 
was  one  of  those  men  who  cannot  see  a  joke,  and  he 
gave  me  notice. 

Such  was  Zenobia.  This  being  so,  I  will  relate 
the  following  true  story  of  donkey  magic. 

Chapter  I :    THE  AUTHOR  DECIDETH 
One  evening  in  June,  Zenobia  having  had  her 
corn,    and   looking   comatose   and   trustworthy,    I 
decided  to  go  out  to  dinner.    And,  as  I  decided,  so 
I  did  ;   alone,  in  a  small  motor-car. 

Chapter  II :    HE  GOETH 

I  drove  in  my  small  motor-car  to  no  other  place 
than  the  local  lunatic  asylum.  Strange  ?  Not  at 
all.  I  would  e'en  drive  to  an  abbatoir,  if  it  con- 
tained such  good  wine.  My  host  at  the  asylum  was 
a  doctor — the  doctor,  having  his  own  sideboard  and 
cellar. 

We  dined  considerably  and  talked  till  late,  and  the 
more  we  dined  the  more  we  talked.  Seldom  have  I 
come  away  from  dinner  feeling  myself  to  be  so 
sound  in  judgment  and  contented  in  mind.  The 
doctor,  it  appeared,  experienced  a  similar  sense  of 
well-being.  He  came  out  into  the  Drive  with  me 
and  we  deliberated  jointly  as  to  which  of  my  two 
starting-handles  had  backfired.  Then  we  talked 
some  more,  and  said  good-bye  a  few  times,  and 


PARAFARK  181 

together   gazed     with    reverence     at     the   moon- 
bespangled  sky. 

After  this  I  started  homeward,  little  dreaming 
that  Zenobia  would  do,  or,  rather,  not  do,  such  a 
thing  as  to  be,  or  not  be,  where  she  was,  or  wasn't, 
when  I — Oh,  dear  !  This  is  a  muddle.  Let's  get 
on  to  the  next  chapter. 

Chapter  III :    HE  RETURNETH 
I  found  the  little  donkey  at  the  end  of  our  lane, 
just  within  sight  of  our  house.     If  I  hadn't  braked 
somewhat  suddenly,   and  chanced  the  ditch,   she 
would  have  found  me  first.     Howevah  ! 

I  got  out  of  the  car  and  rebuked  her.  But  she 
stood  aloof  from  me,  a  bored  expression  in  her  eye 
and  with  a  slightly  contemptuous  curl  of  her  little 
white  nose.  Then,  to  my  surprise,  she  pushed  past 
me,  brusquely,  disdainfully,  and  walked  away ; 
away  from  me  and  away  from  her  home.  I  called  to 
her,  but  she  heeded  not.  I  ran  after  her  and  seized 
her  tail.  Imagine  my  amazement  when  she  kicked  ! 
That  tore  it,  as  vulgar  people  say.  I  dropped  the 
brother  and  sister  business,  there  and  then,  and 
became  authoritative.  I  put  up  a  warning  finger,  and 
wagged  it  at  her,  uttering  a  word  well-known  to  us 
both,  and  having  a  private  and  rather  grim  sig- 
nificance : 

"  Parafark,  my  girl,"  I  said.     "  Parafark  !  " 
She  tossed  her  head.     I  repeated  the  word.     Then, 
with  the  most  insulting  expression  I  have  ever  seen 
on  the  face  of  a  donkey,  she  turned  round  and  brayed 
in  my  eye ! 
After  that,  to  hell  with  chivalry ! 


182  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

A  tussle  ensued,  which  was  no  ordinary  one. 
Step  by  step  I  forced  the  lady  back,  gripping  her 
neck  with  stubborn  arms,  and  butting  her  in  the 
chest  with  an  unconquerable  head.  It  must  have 
taken  me  quite  twenty  minutes  to  push  her  to  her 
shed  ;  but  I  got  her  there  at  last,  and  forced  her 
backwards  into  the  open  doorway  and  closed  the 
door  upon  her,  with  a  vicious  bang,  and  made  it 
fast.  Then,  with  a  parting  shout  of  "  Parafark," 
I  left  her  and  hied  me  to  my  car,  and  brought  it 
home,  and  so  to  bed. 

Chapter  IV  :    His  WIFE  SPEAKETH 

In  the  morning  I  got  up  late,  having  been 
thoroughly  overwrought  by  my  contest  with  that 
stubborn  creature.  My  shaving  water  was  cold, 
and  the  razor  blunt.  And  there  entered  one  to 
argue  with  me. 

"  Are  you  never  coming  down  ?  What  were  you 
doing  so  late  last  night  ?  Such  a  noise.  It  woke 
up  everybody  !  " 

My  reply  was  seasoned  with  reproach.  ' '  Zenobia  ! 
Somebody  had  let  her  out  ....  I  had  to 
stop  up  half  the  night." 

"  Oh.     .     .     what  did  you  do  about  it  ?  " 

"  I  put  her  back  in  the  shed." 

"  Indeed  !  You  are  sure  that  you  did  put  Zenobia 
back  ?  " 

Of  course  I  was  sure.     (Damn  the  razor  !) 

"  You  needn't  swear,"  said  my  visitor.  "  A 
better  thing  to  do  would  be  to  go  down  and  have  a 
look  in  the  shed.  Ellen  tells  me  that  there  are — 
ahem  1 — two  donkeys  there  this  morning." 


XXIV 

Strawberries  and  Cream 


THE  first  strawberries  of  the  season  were  brought  to 
my  door  this  morning  by  an  arrogant  man  with  a 
push-cart.  He  summoned  me  to  my  gate  with  a 
shrill  whistle,  and  when  I  got  there  he  looked  as  if 
he  didn't  see  me,  but  uttered,  in  a  harsh,  disdainful 
voice,  these  words : 

"  Simpkin's  '  Early  Giant.'  First  of  the  season. 
Field-grown.  English.  Me  last  basket.  Ninepence. 
Take  it  or  leave  it." 

I  took  it.  I  set  it  upon  a  porcelain  dish.  I  called 
for  sugar.  They  brought  me  sugar.  I  called  for 
cream.  There  was  no  cream.  'Sdeath !  I  called 
for  my  hat.  I  bellowed  for  my  hat.  The  cringing 
executive  brought  me  three  hats.  I  put  them  on  and 
trudged  out  into  the  beastly  sunshine  to  look  for  a 
rotten  farm.  I  hated  to  do  it ;  I  hated  to  leave 
them  ;  but  it  had  to  be  done.  You  must  have  cream 
for  the  first  of  the  season. 

But  "  must  "  is  not  always  an  easy  word  to  make 
good.  The  cream,  as  it  happened,  took  some 

183 


184  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

finding,  if  I  may  employ  a  vulgar  turn  of  speech. 
The  lady-wife  at  Polecat  Farm  had  sold  her  last 
half -pint  of  cream.  The  lady-wife  at  Mallow  Farm 
was  similarly  situated,  and  eke  was  the  fair  suze- 
raine  of  Salter's.  All  these  grim  persons  attributed 
their  dearth  to  the  same  cause — strawberries. 
"  You  see,"  they  each  explained  in  turn,  and  in 
almost  identical  language,  "  the  strawberries  have 
begun.  We  don't  sell  pennyworths  in  strawberry- 
time.  You  might  try  Mrs.  So-and-So.  She  might 
oblige  you." 

And  so  one  tried  Mrs.  So-and-So,  only  to  get  moved 
on  again.  It  was  a  continual  case,  if  I  may  venture 
to  write  like  a  Literary  Gentleman,  of  shattering  the 
frail  barque  of  one's  Hope  against  the  hard,  in- 
hospitable rock  of  rude  Reality. 

In  other  words,  it  was  No  Earthly. 

However,  I  stuck  to  it,  setting  my  face  to  the  sun, 
and  plodding  on,  along  the  dusty  roads,  up  flinty 
lanes,  across  unstable,  sticky  stiles,  and  over  the 
hot  fields.  And  all  the  time  some  half-remembered 
line  of  verse  kept  obtruding  its  unwelcome  company 
upon  m* : — 

The  gloomy  glutton  crawls  his  creamward  course. 
Or  =hould  it  be  ? 

The  gloomy  glutton  creamward  crawls  his  course. 
Or? 

His    course    the    gloomy    glutton    creamward 

crawls. 

I  didn't  know.  I  don't  know  even  now.  All  that 
I  can  swear  to  is  a  feeling  of  what  the  scientists  call 
"  precognition."  Somewhere,  in  the  dimmest  attic 


STRAWBERRIES  AND  CREAM         185 

of  my  mind,  lurks  the  dumb  conviction  that  I  have 
met  this  irritating  line  before,  when  we  were  both 
much  younger,  and  that  I  have  often  tried  to  parse  it. 

The  Line  was  still  with  me  when  I  got  to  Lunce's 
Farm,  which  I  had  sternly  sworn  should  mark  the 
limit  of  my  journey.  If  Lunce's  Farm  afforded  no 
cream,  then  I  would  own  myself  beaten,  and  deter- 
mine this  fatiguing  pursuit  of  the  Ideal.  They 
would  jolly  well  have  to  submit  to  being  eaten 
without  cream. 

I  am  familiar  with  the  precept  that  an  Englishman 
does  not  know  when  he  is  beaten  ;  but,  hang  it  all, 
you  can't  be  Anglo-Saxon  all  the  time.  There  comes 
a  moment  in  the  life  of  every  Englishman  when  he 
simply  has  to  perceive  the  obvious.  But  when  I 
got  to  Lunce's  Farm  I  thought  no  more  about  the 
cream  ;  and  the  Creamward  Crawling  Glutton  was 
likewise  cast  out  from  my  thoughts.  Things  were 
being  done  at  Lunce's  Farm  so  weird  and  inex- 
plicable, so  strange  to  look  upon,  that  I  could  think 
of  nothing  else. 

In  a  large  and  extremely  unsequestered  field, 
appurtenant  to  Lunce's  Farm,  a  number  of  stout 
women,  apoplectic  and  unclean  in  aspect,  were 
herding  a  much  larger  company  of  evidently  ex- 
hausted children.  The  children  were  scattered 
about  the  field  in  an  unhappy  squatting  posture  ; 
and  they  seemed  to  be  poking  feverishly  at  the  earth, 
which  was  covered  with  a  blue-green  foliage,  of 
thick  but  stunted  growth.  All  of  the  children  were 
hatless,  and  some  of  them  quite  bareheaded,  though 
a  few  of  the  boys  wore  small  caps  of  the  air-proof 


i86  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

material  which  has  been  evolved  for  the  comfort 
of  youth. 

Some  of  the  stout  women  to  whom  I  have  referred 
squatted  among  the  children  and  likewise  clawed  the 
earth.  But  most  of  the  women  were  employed  in 
exhorting  their  young.  They  didn't  look  to  me  like 
local  women.  I  don't  know  what  breed  of  woman 
they  were.  Our  women  possess  a  visible  waist  line  : 
we  let  them  grow  prize  hips  in  middle  life,  because 
by  that  time  they  have  earned  repose  and  a  seat  in 
the  carrier's  cart ;  but,  until  their  feet  give  out, 
and  they  lose  their  faith  in  foot  planks,  and  can  no 
longer  walk  the  meadow  ways,  we  like  them  to  keep 
"  lissome."  Besides,  they  have  to ;  because  we 
specialise  in  a  peculiar  kind  of  stile,  the  local  name 
for  which  is  "  squeeze-gate."  For  "  gate,"  read 
something  else,  not  fit  for  publication  in  a  book  which 
is  likely  to  be  read  by  the  old  and  unsophisticated. 
You  need  only  change  one  vowel,  and  omit  the  other. 

Well,  dear  Hearts,  these  women  were  certainly 
not  like  our  women.  They  had  such  dirty  faces  and 
such  beery  eyes,  and  bits  of  black  crepe  all  over  them; 
and  they  kept  on  saying  "  Blast  you  !  "  to  their 
children,  who  droned  and  murmured  in  the  sun 
glare,  like  bees  that  were  oppressed.  Oh,  how  they 
sweated,  those  dirty  little  children  ! 

While  I  was  watching  them,  and  wondering  why 
they  acted  so,  and  why  these  fatted  women  urged 
them  to  it,  my  thoughts  were  suddenly  distracted  by 
a  sharp  and  sudden  sound  :  the  word,  or  byword, 
"  'Ush !  "  hissed  out  at  my  feet.  I  looked  along 
the  ragged  path,  and  beheld  a  Maid  in  ambush. 


STRAWBERRIES  AND  CREAM         187 

She  lay  on  her  back,  not  two  yards  from  me,  at  a 
point  where  the  rough  hedge  which  bordered  the 
path  broke  into  a  little  clearing.  The  clearing — 
which  consisted  of  a  patch  of  couch-grass,  about  two 
yards  square— was  bounded  by  a  ragged,  moulting 
hawthorn  bush,  and  under  this  the  maiden  lay. 
She  was  a  comely  maiden,  though  pale,  with  un- 
soaped  patches.  She  was  sixteen  years  of  age,  to 
count  at  a  venture,  and  her  clothes  consisted, 
principally,  of  sack  and  stocking.  She  showed  a  lot 
of  stocking. 

The  girl  was  resting  on  her  elbow  when  she  saw 
me,  pressing  a  finger  against  each  temple.  Her 
eyes,  which  were  darkened  with  pain,  contrasted 
strangely  with  the  rich  crimson  of  her  lips.  She 
looked  at  me  for  some  time  in  silence,  and  then  she 
spoke : 

"  No  'arm  meant,  Mister.  Don't  give  it  away, 
that's  all !  " 

"  Give  what  away  ?  "  I  enquired. 

"  Me  bein'  'ere,"  answered  the  girl.  "  I  crep'  'ere 
on  the  quiet.  See  ?  Got  a  aunt  in  that  field.  See  ? 
She  ain't  spotted  me  yet.  Won't  'arf  comb  me 
eyebrows  when  she  do.  Gawd  !  My  'ead  do  ache." 

"  This  is  very  headachey  weather,"  I  submitted, 
with  a  wise  look. 

"  Weather  don't  trouble  me,"  answered  the  girl. 
"  It's  me  'ead.  I  come  over  queer  at  times." 

"  Have  you  been  playing  with  those  other  children 
in  the  field  there  ?  "  I  enquired. 

The  young  woman,  still  holding  her  temples, 
looked  at  me  wonderingly.  Then  she  said,  quietly, 


i88  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

but  with  a  queer  little  smile  :  "  Yes,  Mister.  That's 
what  I  been  doin' — play  in' '.  Playin'  with  the  other 
children  in  the  field.  And  then  I  come  on  queer. 
And  then  I  crawled  'ere.  And  when  me  auntie 
finds  me  I  shall  feel  a  bit  queerer  yet.  She  won't 
'arf  dot  me  one,  I  know.  Oh,  me  'ead.  Strawberry 
time  and  'oppin'  ain't  no  use  to  me.  I  never  was 
one  for — for  playin'.  It  brings  them  on." 

I  asked  what  "  them  "  might  be. 

"  These  'eadaches,  these  fits.  Me  aunt, 

she  thinks  it's  only  a  game  I'm  up  to  ;  but  I  know 
better,  'cos  I  seen  my  pore  mother  come  on  just 
similar.  Some  o'  them  say  I'm  bilious ;  but 
nobody  can't  be  bilious  on  tea  and  squash-fly 
biscitts.  That's  all  I've  'ad  to-day :  straight 
it  is.  Bilious  ?  Rats !  It's  Epilepsy  Fits  what 
I  got,  same  as  me  mother.  When  a  person's  bilious 
you  don't  get  so's  ya're  mouth  won't  open  and 
there's  devils  in  ya're  'ead,  and  you  can't  move  and 
ya  can't  speak,  and  ya  lie  there  till  it's  over.  And 
then  ya  wake  up  stiff  and  awkward,  same's  if  any- 
body had  kicked  ya.  Bilious  ?  Bah !  It's  Epi- 
lepsy Fits  I  got.  That's  my  belief  atennerate.  They 
on'y  come  in  Strawberry  Time — and  sometimes  at 
the  'oppin'.  But  there's  more  shade  at  the  'oppin'. 
Pull  me  skirt  down,  will  ya,  Mister  ?  Thanks.  I  feel 
that  stiff  and  awkward.  Goo-er  !  My  'ead  do  ache." 

"  Go  hon  !  "  exclaimed  a  voice  at  my  elbow. 
"  Do  it  reely  ?  Shall  I  send  to  the  chemis'  for  some 
Owdy  Clown,  dear  girl  ?  " 

I  then  perceived  that  a  triple-chinned  lady  in 
black  crepe  and  a  perspiration  had  silently  joined 
our  counsels.  She  said  to  me  : 


STRAWBERRIES  AND  CREAM         189 

"  Good  morning,  Archibald.  Havin'  a  day  out 
with  my  niece  ?  She's  a  nice  girl,  ain't  she  ?  Suffers 
from  'eadache,  poor  thing." 

"  Yes,"  I  assented,  "  she  suffers  badly.  You 
ought  to  take  care  of  her." 

"  Certainly,  young  man,"  said  the  lady  with  the 
chins.  "  /'//  look  arter  'er.  I'm  a  great  one  for 
lookin'  arter  'em  ;  ain't  I,  dear  girl  ?  " 

The  dear  girl  did  not  offer  any  reply  to  this  ques- 
tion, but  pressed  her  fingers  tightly  to  her  temples 
and  looked  away. 

"  Stayin'  'ere  long  ?  Come  up  on  business  ?  " 
demanded  the  older  woman,  suddenly,  turning  on 
me. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  I  answered,  politely  :  feeling  it 
improper  to  exhibit  the  great  dislike  of  this  woman 
which  had  taken  possession  of  me.  "  I  have  merely 
called  round  for  some  cream." 

"  I  see,"  exclaimed  the  woman,  baring  a  wide 
expanse  of  mottled  gum.  "  Strawberries  and  cream, 
eh  ?  They're  a  nice  fruit,  strawberries  are." 

"  Ye-e-es,"  I  replied,  looking  at  the  burnt-out 
eyes  of  the  girl  on  the  ground. 

"  I  think  y'  oughter  look  nippy,  if  ya  want  that 
cream,"  continued  Auntie.  "  Strawberries  are  in 
to-day,  remember.  I'll  look  arter  Gertie  'ere.  The 
silly  gal's  'ad  too  much  omelette  for  luncheon.  I'm 
a  great  one  for  lookin'  after  gals." 

I  couldn't,  with  any  show  of  courtesy,  force  my 
further  conversation  upon  the  two  ladies,  and  so  I 
made  my  adieux  and  went  away.  Shortly  after- 
wards I  found  myself  holding  a  jug  of  cream  which 
somebody  had  doubtless  sold  to  me. 


igo  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

As  I  walked  home  with  the  cream  in  my  hand  I 
looked  again  at  the  field  where  the  children  were 
playing,  and  I  saw  that  Auntie  had  kept  her  word. 
The  girl  with  the  headache  was  so  far  restored  as  to 
have  returned  to  the  field,  and  was  playing  with  the 
the  other  children.  She  was  playing  under  Auntie's 
immediate  supervision,  putting  a  hand  to  her  temple 
whenever  Auntie  looked  away.  The  children  still 
moaned  at  their  play. 

When  I  reached  home,  still  carrying  my  jug,  it 
suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  my  appetite  for 
strawberries  and  cream  had  departed.  So  I  called 
for  Mistress  Sandy  Manx,  the  cat.  That  wise 
creature  lapped  up  all  the  cream,  but  left  the 
strawberries. 


XXV 

Mr.  Ap  Elwes 


I  HAD  almost  forgotten  Mr.  Ap  Elwes.  I've  not 
seen  him  since  the  winter  of  1913,  and,  like 
everybody's,  my  memory  does  not  work  well  if 
you  ask  it  to  go  back  beyond  the  August  which 
followed  that  winter.  .  .  .  Still,  I  did  happen 
to  think  of  Mr.  Ap  Elwes  this  morning,  and 
of  his  two  friends,  and  their  sudden  arrival  at 
my  house,  or,  rather,  in  my  ditch.  It  is  nice  to 
think  about  things  which  happened  in  those  gay, 
forgotten,  far-off  days  :  the  days  before  that  August. 
It  is  nice  to  write  about  such  things.  I  will  write 
about  Mr.  Ap  Elwes.  I  will  write  about  him  aim- 
lessly, formlessly,  just  as  I  think  about  him. 

We  found  Mr.  Ap  Elwes  in  a  ditch. 

We  came  home  to  dinner  very  tired  and  very  cold 
on  a  very  January  night,  having  driven  four  miles 
through  a  very  spiteful  snow-storm.  On  reaching 
home,  we  found  a  snow-storm  gathering,  as  it  were, 
upon  the  hearth  :  a  spiritual  snow-storm.  This  was 
manifested  in  the  cold  voice,  the  chilled  eye,  the 

191 


192  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

frozen  manner  of  a  certain  little  serving-maid,  who 
received  us  with  these  words  : 

"  Please,  there  is  a  gentle — a  person — a — party — 
have  called  to  see  you.  He've  left  his  name  wrote 
out  upon  a  paper  and  he  will  call  again.  Him  and  a 
young  woman  is  waiting  up  the  road  there  now. 
They  be  laid  on  a  blanket,  under  a  hedge,  beside  of  a 
ditch.  And,  if  you  please'm,  I've  stayed  on  but 
I  didn't  like  it,  and  there's  no  one  else  here,  on'y  me. 
Hepzibah,  she  didn't  like  it  at  all.  She  have  gone 
home  to  her  mother." 

I  examined  the  paper.  It  set  forth,  in  a  neat  and 
clerkly  hand,  my  visitor's  name — which  was  Mr. 
David  Ap  Elwes — and  certain  biographical  par- 
ticulars, from  which  I  learned  that  he  was  a  man 
belonging  to  the  landless  people  of  Little  Egypt, 
that  he  possessed  literary  tastes,  a  wife,  a  blanket, 
and  some  clothes-pegs,  and  that  he  had  walked  from 
some  very  distant  place  to  visit  me  in  the  capacity 
of  one  who  had  read  with  satisfaction  certain  works 
of  fiction  published  in  my  name. 

I  therefore  staggered  out  into  the  snow  again — 
my  cab  by  this  time  having  driven  off — and  groped 
about  the  hedgerows  in  search  of  Mr.  Ap  Elwes' 
particular  ditch.  This  I  ultimately  found,  with  Mr. 
Ap  Elwes  inside  it,  together  with  his  lady  wife — 
who  was  likewise  a  person  of  Egyptian  blood — the 
blanket,  and  another  man  (a  young  man)  who 
appeared  to  be  a  permanent  and  valued,  if  not 
readily  explicable  member  of  this  unconventional 
ditchhold. 

They  lay  all  in  a  lump,  all  under  the  one  blanket. 


MR.  AP  ELWES  193 

It  continued  to  snow,  and  Mr.  Ap  Elwes  recited 
chunks  of  Borrow.  There  was  sirloin  of  beef  in 
our  house,  and  the  hour  of  its  apotheosis  was  im- 
minent. The  snow  fell  so  continuously  that  I  could 
not  smell  anything  :  neither  Mr.  Ap  Elwes,  nor  his 
wife,  not  the  gentleman  their  friend.  So  I  asked 
them  all  to  dinner.  And,  snuffling  loudly,  for  they 
had  all  got  colds,  they  came  to  dinner. 

There  is  a  certain  composition  in  rhyme  which 
we  used  to  recite  at  school :  an  utterly  unrefined 
composition,  beginning  "  There  was  an  old  man  of 
Madrid  "  and  ending  with  the  words :  "  What  ho, 
when  they  opened  the  lid  !  "  I  mention  this  purely 
academic  matter  here  because  I  wish  to  say  of  Mr. 
Ap  Elwes  and  his  wife  and  friend  : 

"  What  ho,  when  they  entered  the  room  !  " 

But  they  were  nice  people.  Depraved,  perhaps, 
but  unaffected :  just  like  overgrown  sparrows. 
And,  if  there  was  something  about  them  which 
definitely  did  not  remind  one  of  Florida  Water,  they 
were  all  quietly  conscious  of  this  circumstance,  and 
did  not  diffuse  themselves,  but  hung  together  in  a 
tight  bunch. 

Mr.  Ap  Elwes  himself  mystified  me.  While 
proclaiming  himself  to  be  a  genuine  Egyptian,  ditch- 
born,  bracken-reared  ;  whilst  disclaiming  honesty, 
intelligence,  and  all  the  other  virtues — he  said  that 
he  had  thieved  for  a  living  all  his  life,  like  a  gipsy 
and  a  gentleman — he  spouted  bits  of  Latin,  talked 
French  with  a  decent  accent,  and  mended  the 
magneto  of  a  motor  bicycle.  He  also  played  some 
fiddle  ;  but  he  played  it  worse  than  ill.  He  sang 
N 


194  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

songs,  too — hymns.  Most  of  them  are  not  printable, 
but  I  recall  with  emotion  the  refrain  of  one  ol  them  : 
"  For  he's  a  jolly  good  saviour  !  " 

It  seemed  to  me  difficult  to  believe  that  which  Mr. 
Elwes  evidently  wished  me  to  believe  :  that  he  was 
an  ordinary  native-born  Egyptian  who  had  picked 
up  smatterings  of  "  culchaw  "  at  taverns  and  race 
meetings  and  from  scraps  of  old  newspapers.  It  was 
difficult  to  believe  that  he  had  learnt  to  talk  good 
French  and  to  know  Rousseau  by  heart  merely  from 
patient  study  of  those  literary  fragments  in  which 
tradesmen  wrap  up  bloaters.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
my  Mr.  Ap  Elwes  is  a  psychological  fraud,  if  his 
gypsydom  be  all  "  fake,"  and  his  is  merely  one  of 
those  mad  Borrow  worshippers  who  have  "  turned  " 
gypsy,  then  I  can  only  describe  that  smell  of  his  as  a 
piece  of  very  fine  realism. 

Mr.  Ap  Elwes  stayed  on  in  the  ditch  opposite  for 
some  three  more  days  and  nights.  During  the  days 
he  quoted  Borrow.  During  the  nights  he  fiddled. 
At  odd  moments  he  came  in  to  breakfast,  lunch,  or 
dinner,  and  we  exchanged  opinions,  he  and  I,  upon  a 
variety  of  profane  or  sacred  subjects. 

Then,  one  morning,  when  it  had  left  off  snowing, 
Mr.  Ap  Elwes  gathered  up  his  blankets,  his  wife, 
his  pegs,  and  his  friend,  and  stole  away.  Before 
stealing  away — significant  word — he  bade  me  adieu. 

Holding  both  my  hands  in  his  own,  Mr.  Ap  Elwes 
uttered  a  series  of  vows  and  invocations  in  the 
speech  of  Little  Egypt :  he  also  shed  a  number  of 
smells — I  mean  spells — and  incantations.  These 
ceremonies,  he  gave  me  to  understand,  converted 


MR.  AP  ELWES  195 

me  into  his  pale-faced  brother,  who  was  to  command 
him  in  all  things.     As  a  start,  he  suggested  coming 
back  again  to  build  me  a  sleeping  waggon. 
But  that  is  another  story. 


XXVI 

Practical  Brewing 


IT  was  an  old  and  accomplished  friend  of  mine  who 
started  me  on  my  career  as  a  brewer.  He  told  me 
that  the  process  was  simple,  the  accessories  few,  the 
ingredients  cheap,  and  the  resulting  product  de- 
licious. He  also  stated  that  the  latter  would  contain 
a  very  small  percentage  of  alcohol,  and  that  it  would 
not  therefore  be  subject  to  the  imposition  of  duty. 
He  wrote  down  explicit  directions  in  a  round  hand 
on  ruled  paper.  He  also  accompanied  me  on  an 
expedition  to  a  neighbouring  town  where  I  collected 
the  necessary  materials. 

My  first  brew  of  ale  was  completed  yesterday,  and 
has  been  pronounced  by  those  who  have  drunk  it 
to  be  so  satisfactory  that  I  feel  justified  in  giving  an 
account  of  my  methods  and  experiences  to  the  world. 
I  offer  an  exact  description  of  the  whole  business, 
'together  with  an  account  of  the  cost  and  nature  of 
the  material  and  utensils  employed.  I  also  ack- 
nowledge the  advice  and  assistance  tendered  me 

196 


PRACTICAL  BREWING  197 

throughout  the  operation  by  my  family  and  neigh- 
bours. 

The  principal  utensils  required  for  beer-making 
are  (a)  a  barrel,  (b)  a  vat,  (c)  a  kitchen  or  scullery — 
preferably  not  your  own,  (d)  a  cooling  vessel,  and 
(e)  bottles.  Any  bottles  will  do,  but  it  may  be  here 
noted  that  those  which  have  contained  Worcester- 
shire Sauce  are  apt  to  retain,  even  after  frequent 
washing,  a  quality  of  acidulation. 

In  the  matter  of  casks,  the  Intending  Brewer 
would  do  well,  as  I  did,  to  purchase  one  at  second 
hand.  My  cask  had  originally  and  for  many  years 
been  used  in  the  cider  trade.  An  old  cider  cask,  I 
am  told,  does  not  constitute  an  ideal  receptacle 
for  beer ;  but  even  less  so  does  a  cask  which  has  been 
used  for  paraffin.  That  was  the  alternative  offered 
to  me. 

The  vat  presents  a  difficulty.  It  has  to  be  of 
copper.  Brass,  bell-metal,  or  galvanised  tanking 
won't  do.  A  suitable  receptable  can  usually  be 
found,  embedded  in  concrete,  in  the  back  part  of 
any  old  house.  To  judge  from  my  own  experience, 
however,  the  Intending  Brewer  should  disguise  as 
far  as  possible  the  actual  purpose  for  which  he  in- 
tends to  use  this  article. 

The  Intending  Brewer,  having  gathered  together 
or  marked  down  the  necessary  utensils  of  his  craft, 
will  now  secure  his  ingredients.  These  consist  of 
(a)  water,  (b)  hops  (c)  yeast,  and  (d)  sugar.  All  are 
inexpensive,  and  all,  with  the  exception  of  (d),  are 
easily  secured.  The  plan  which  I  adopted  was  to 
buy  the  hops  from  a  chemist,  and  the  yeast  from  a 


ig8  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

baker,  and  to  draw  the  water  from  a  well.  A  tap 
would  serve  the  same  purpose,  but  I  haven't  got  a 
tap. 

With  regard  to  the  sugar  my  proceedings  were 
more  complicated.  Without  going  into  unnecessary 
detail  I  may  say  that  I  have  taught  myself  to  go  out 
to  tea  and  to  drink  it  bitter,  but  to  mention  my 
little  dog,  for  whom  I  am  ostensibly  collecting  sugar. 
It  took  me  rather  more  than  two  weeks  to  assemble 
the  required  number  of  lumps  (net  weight  lib.  2oz., 
sufficient  for  4^  gallons  of  beer).  The  Intending 
Brewer,  however,  will  probably  adopt  some  other 
means  of  obtaining  sugar,  as  so  many  systems  are  in 
vogue.  Almost  any  good  system  will  serve. 

I  will  now  describe  my  actual  method  of  brewing 
beer,  which  all  the  readers  of  this  book  are  at  liberty 
to  copy  without  fee  or  conditions  of  any  kind. 

Having  collected  my  sugar  and  bought  my  yeast 
and  hops,  I  accepted  delivery  of  the  cider  barrel, 
and  carried  it  privately  to  the  gardener's  tool  shed. 
I  there  measured  it  with  a  foot-rule  to  ascertain  its 
lineal  dimensions.  This  enabled  me  to  calculate 
that  an  earthenware  bread-pan  which  stood  in  the 
kitchen  would  be  large  enough  to  serve  as  a  cooling 
vessel.  I  therefore  carried  the  bread-pan  to  the 
potting  shed,  leaving  its  lid  and  the  bread  behind 
me.  This  was  an  oversight  which  the  Intending 
Brewer,  profiting  by  my  example,  will  do  well  to 
avoid. 

I  now  made  some  trivial  excuse  for  entering  the 
scullery,  unaccompanied  by  anybody  else,  and  there 
humming  loudly  I  ascertained  that  the  household 


PRACTICAL  BREWING  199 

copper  was  disengaged  and  clean.  I  then  hummed 
back  again  to  the  family  circle,  and  waited  anxiously 
for  nightfall.  When  it  at  last  grew  dark,  and  after  I 
had  several  times  remarked  how  tired  they  looked, 
the  members  of  the  household  went  to  bed,  and  I 
sat  up,  ostensibly  to  smoke  and  think.  A  state 
of  profound  quiet  having  been  thus  established  I 
then  pushed  on  with  my  brewing. 

My  first  step  was  to  collect  some  wood,  and  a  few 
Departmental  Instructions  about  gooseberries  (now 
obsolete)  and  to  build  a  fire  beneath  the  copper.  I 
then  went  on  tiptoe  to  the  well,  the  winding  winch 
of  which  I  had  previously  oiled,  and  drew  two 
buckets  of  water,  which  I  carried  secretly  to  the 
copper  without  disturbing  anybody.  I  transferred 
an  estimated  quantity  of  water  from  the  buckets 
to  the  copper,  using  for  this  purpose  one  pint  jug 
with  a  hole  in  it. 

I  intended  to  brew  enough  beer  to  fill  my  cask,  the 
capacity  of  which  is  4^  gallons.  To  allow  for  evapo- 
ration and  other  unavoidable  causes  of  wastage,  it  is 
necessary  in  brewing  to  start  with  a  quantity  of 
liquid  greater  in  bulk  than  the  amount  which  you 
have  in  ultimate  view.  I  reckoned  to  start  with  5^ 
gallons  of  water,  which  I  measured  out  on  a  basis  of 
four  jugfuls  to  the  gallon,  spilling  some  on  the  way. 
My  basis  of  calculation,  as  mathematicians  will 
readily  perceive,  was  inexact.  But  there  seemed, 
nevertheless,  to  be  a  lot  of  water  in  the  copper,  as 
well  as  on  the  floor,  when  I  measured  out  my  pints. 

I  then  secured  a  few  clean  tea-cloths — the  In- 
tending Brewer  would  do  well  to  follow  my  example 


200  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

in  this — and  thoroughly  dried  the  floor.  While  I 
was  thus  occupied,  a  question  was  addressed  to  me 
from  an  upper  window.  Somebody  wanted  to  know 
what  on  earth  I  was  doing.  I  replied  that  I  was 
simply  reading  Lord  Fisher's  "  Memoirs." 

At  half-past  five  on  the  following  morning  I  got  up 
and  lit  my  fire.  I  then  added  my  hops  to  the  water, 
the  former  being  securely  tied  up  in  an  ex  blue-bag. 
The  Intending  Brewer  should  note  this  fact,  as  the 
improvised  receptacle  which  I  used  for  the  hops  may 
have  exercised  some  influence  on  the  subsequent 
changes  which  took  place  in  the  colour  of  my  beer. 
Perhaps  our  water,  which  contains  a  proportion  of 
iron  deposit,  may  have  been  chiefly  responsible  for 
this.  Anyhow,  the  fact  remains  that,  so  soon  as  my 
hops  were  added  to  my  beer,  my  beer  became  blue. 
A  sort  of  inky  blue.  As  the  beer  became  warmer, 
the  blue  became  bluer.  Before  I  removed  it  from 
the  copper,  it  was  almost  black,  with  a  thick  purple 
scum. 

The  Intending  Brewer  should  clearly  understand 
that  the  correct  way  of  making  beer  is  to  add  the 
hops  to  the  water  when  the  water  is  quite  cold,  then 
to  bring  the  liquid  to  boiling  point,  and  then  to  boil 
slowly  for  a  specified  period.  In  my  case,  aiming 
as  I  was  at  an  ultimate  residue  of  4!  gallons,  the 
specified  period  is  two  hours.  But  I  had  omitted 
from  my  calculations  the  length  of  time  required  for 
the  preliminary  process,  that  of  "  bringing  to  the 
boil."  I  thought  that  the  length  of  time  required 
for  bringing  a  domestic  copper  to  boil  could  be 


PRACTICAL  BREWING  201 

measured  in  minutes — say  40  or  50.  Instead  of 
which — well,  at  twelve  o'clock  the  liquid  had  barely 
begun  to  smoke,  and  by  that  time  it  was  looking  so 
blue  and  smelt  so  beery  that  I  was  unable  to  dis- 
guise the  nature  of  my  operation,  and  I  had  to 
confess  the  purpose  which  I  had  in  view.  Intending 
Brewers  will  learn  from  this  how  important  it  is  to 
start  one's  fire  overnight. 

Amid  a  scene  of  domestic  protest,  I  then  began 
the  next  process  in  the  art  of  brewing.  This  con- 
sisted in  removing  the  beer  from  the  copper  and 
putting  it  in  the  cooling  vessel,  which  I  had  placed 
ready  in  a  sheltered  corner  of  the  garden.  A  sort  of 
purple  track  across  the  grey  stones  of  the  scullery 
remains  still  as  evidence  of  my  toil  and  care.  When 
all  the  beer  now  available — some  three  quarts — 
had  been  put  into  the  cooling  vessel,  I  added  sugar 
and  browning.  The  latter  is  used  for  imparting  a 
good  colour  to  the  beer,  but  the  man  who  first 
prescribed  it  had  evidently  overlooked  the  possibility 
of  beer  being  blue  to  start  with.  When  I  put  the 
browning  in  my  cooling  vessel  the  liquid  inside  it 
became  quite  green,  much  to  the  interest  of  my 
audience. 

Did  I  mention  the  audience  ?  Well,  it  consisted 
of  a  lot  of  old  gentlemen  from  an  adjacent  mansion 
which  has  been  converted,  as  a  result  of  the  war, 
into  a  temporary  workhouse.  These  old  gentlemen, 
smelling  beer,  had  come  forth  in  considerable 
numbers,  and  their  large  red  noses  had  led  them 
infallibly  to  the  spot  where  my  beer  was  being  made. 


202  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

They  hung  on  my  fence  with  watery  eyes  and  moist, 
expectant  mouths. 

When  the  beer  was  seen  to  turn  green  one  of  the 
old  gentlemen  became  voluble.  He  said  that  this 
condition  of  colour  indicated  a  need  on  the  part  of 
the  beer  for  the  addition  of  vinegar.  He  said  I 
ought  to  put  in  a  pint  of  vinegar  and  then  leave  the 
beer  all  night  and  then  warm  it  up  again  before 
applying  yeast. 

I  followed  his  directions  amid  the  loudest  possible 
protests  from  my  household,  particularly  at  the 
re-warming  process,  and  when  I  came  to  the  point 
when  yeast  should  be  added  (Intending  Brewers, 
mark  this  !)  I  found  that  the  yeast  had  turned  into 
a  sort  of  fuller's  earth,  and  I  had  to  walk  a  matter 
of  eight  miles,  there  and  back,  to  fetch  some  more 
yeast.  This  I  added  to  the  lukewarm  beer,  which 
began  to  foam  and  sizzle  in  my  face.  Twelve  hours 
later  the  beer  was  ready  to  be  skimmed  and  casked. 
On  removing  the  scum,  however,  I  could  find  no 
beer.  The  process  of  casking  is  therefore  deferred 
until  next  time. 

The  old  gentlemen  from  the  workhouse,  who  had 
again  assembled,  were  very  nice  indeed  about  the 
regrettable  absence  of  actual  beer.  In  default  of 
the  beer  itself,  they  proposed  to  drink  or  eat  the 
scum.  This  was  now  of  a  rich  blood  colour,  streaked 
with  yellow.  The  paupers  ate  the  beer  and  pro- 
nounced it  to  be  very  good  beer  indeed — as  good  beer 
as  they  could  wish  for,  though  perhaps  a  thought  too 
bitter. 

This,  I  pointed  out,  could  be  remedied  by  spread- 


PRACTICAL  BREWING  203 

ing  the  beer  on  bread  ;  and  Intending  Brewers,  who 
propose  to  follow  my  recipe,  will  do  well  to  adopt 
this  method  of  utilizing  any  beer  which  they  may 
find  in  their  vats  after  completing  the  boil. 


XXVII 

The  Laughing  Soldier 


THE  Germans  have  recently  marched  through  this 
village,  and  there  has  been  a  row  about  it.  Eunice 
Fuller,  aged  six,  provoked  the  row. 

Eunice  Fuller — who  is  usually  called  Nicey,  to 
save  time — was  playing  in  old  Ashby's  orchard  at  the 
corner  of  our  three  roads  when  the  Germans  came 
along.  There  were  four  of  them,  strapping  young 
men,  all  mounted  on  great  horses.  Behind  them 
rode  a  British  octogenarian  in  khaki.  The  Germans, 
you  see,  were  captives. 

It  is  a  fact  which  I  am  bound  to  state,  since  this 
is  not  a  piece  of  fiction  but  the  record  of  an  actual 
event,  that  the  Germans  as  they  passed  by  inspired 
us  all  with  a  strange  sense  of  rejuvenescence.  This 
is  because  they  were  young  and  vigorous  men,  such 
as  we  had  not  seen  in  this  village  for  four  years. 
We  had  become  so  accustomed  to  seeing  only  aged 
or  half-whole  men  about  the  place  that  the  feeling 
created  by  the  sudden  advent  of  these  four  strong 
striplings  was  one  almost  of  good  cheer.  We  were 

204 


THE  LAUGHING  SOLDIER  205 

reminded  of  far-off  things — the  traditional  English 
scene  at  harvest  time  and  village  sunsets  as  they 
used  to  be.  We  were  reminded  of ' '  before  the  War," 
and  that  made  us  remember  that  an  "  after  the  War  " 
was  to  come. 

With  some  such  feelings  as  these  the  people  about 
the  village  looked  at  the  Germans  and  smiled.  The 
Germans,  looking  quite  unwarlike,  quite  un-German, 
in  their  British  corduroy  trousers,  smiled  back.  We 
then  all  frowned. 

One  particular  German  who  went  in  front  of  all  the 
others,  riding  the  best  horse  of  all,  and  leading  the 
second  best,  was  actually  laughing  and  singing. 
What  a  German  should  have  to  laugh  or  sing  about 
in  October  of  1918,  none  of  us  could  imagine, 
excepting  Mr.  Brunt,  the  blacksmith,  who  suggested 
that  this  German  had  probably  just  killed  a  canary. 
Mr.  Brunt's  view  of  the  case  was  unanimously 
accepted. 

Anyhow,  there  the  German  was,  young,  healthy, 
undeniably  good-looking,  riding  a  fine  horse,  and 
singing  and  laughing.  And  then  what  should 
Eunice  Fuller  do  but  scramble  through  the  hole  in 
Mr.  Ashby's  hedge,  and  run  up  to  this  German  and 
give  him  two  apples — Mr.  Ashby's  apples. 

To  say  that  all  the  village  stood  aghast  is  but 
faintly  to  express  the  inexpressible  emotion  which 
overtook  us.  There  were  we,  a  loyal  Mid-Sussex 
village,  brought  up  exclusively  on  the  "  Mid-Sussex 
Times  "  and  the  "  News  of  the  World,"  standing 
about  in  broad  daylight  while  one  of  us  gave  apples 
to  a  German  prisoner.  And  such  good  apples,  too  : 
Mr.  Ashby's  best. 


206  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

Before  our  inarticulate  murmurings  had  died 
down,  the  German  prisoners  had  gone  on,  and  all 
that  remained  to  mark  their  passage  was  a  dwindling 
pillar  of  dust  afar  off  in  the  roadway.  So  we  turned 
our  attention  to  Eunice. 

Old  Miss  Miggins,  a  doer  of  good  works,  one  who 
visits  the  paralysed  paupers  at  the  workhouse  every 
Sunday  for  three  hours  and  reads  to  them  from  the 
Book  of  Job,  was  the  first  to  bear  down  on  Eunice 
Fuller.  Miss  Miggins  was  closely  followed  by  the 
Grand  Duchess,  a  widowed  lady  of  narrow  means  but 
superb  dignity,  whose  title  dates  from  the  Battle 
of  Tannenberg.  In  a  crowded  village  shop,  this 
lady  rebuked  the  village  shopkeeper  for  pessimistic 
utterances.  "  Believe  me,  Mr.  Moon,"  she  said, 
"  the  Russians  will  recover,  and  I  object  to  your 
criticising  them.  I  have  great  faith  in  the  Grand 
Duke  .  .  .  great  faith  in  the  Grand  Duke." 
This  lady,  then,  went  hotly  after  Eunice  Fuller  at 
the  heels  of  Miss  Miggins,  and  was  in  her  turn 
followed  by  Mr.  Brunt,  the  blacksmith. 

"  There's  a  young  upstart  for  you  !  "  exclaimed 
Mr.  Brunt :  "  giving  apples  to  a  German  prisoner. 
She  couldn't  give  one  to  the  English  soldier  then  ? 
That's  what  gets  me  \  " 

Old  Mr.  Ashby,  who  followed  Mr.  Brunt,  said  : 
"  They  was  moi  apples  be  Gard  !  " 

By  the  time  all  these  representatives  of  right 
feeling  had  reached  the  spot  where  Eunice  Fuller  was 
standing,  that  little  maiden  no  longer  stood  there, 
having  re-entered  the  orchard  through  her  hole  in 
the  hedge.  Miss  Miggins  beckoned,  Mr.  Ashby 


THE  LAUGHING  SOLDIER  207 

gesticulated,  Mr.  Brunt  shouted,  and  the  Grand 
Duchess,  who  was  fashionably  clad  and  tightly 
corseted,  reached  over  the  hedge  with  her  long- 
handled  umbrella  arid  seized  Eunice  Fuller  with 
the  crook.  Eunice  Fuller  could  not  ignore  so  many 
invitations,  and  came  out  again  through  her  hole. 

Miss  Miggins  then  offered  her  a  few  well-frozen 
words  of  reproof.  Eunice  Fuller  stared.  "  I  on'y 
gin  him  a  apple,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  They  was  moi  apples,"  old  Mr.  Ashby  pointed 
out. 

"  They  was  crumplings.  Fallen  down.  I  digged 
them  from  the  grass."  Eunice  Fuller  assumed  a 
defensive  attitude  and  looked  at  Mr.  Ashby  boldly. 

"  I  don't  grow  moi  apples  for  to  give  to  no  ugly 
Germans,"  Mr.  Ashby  protested. 

The  Grand  Duchess  here  took  part.  "  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed,"  she  said,  "  to  give  good 
apples  to  a  German.  No  little  English  girl  ought 
to  give  good  apples  to  a  German,  Who  told  you  to 
give  those  apples  to  a  German  ?  Not  your  mother, 
I'm  sure !  " 

Eunice  Fuller  stared  up  at  the  Grand  Duchess, 
blinkly  slowly  :  "I  haunt  never  gin  no  apples  to  a 
German,"  she  said  at  last.  "  I  gave  them  to  a 
soldier." 

"  That  you  never  done,  my  girl.  That  I'll  go 
witness  to.  You  gin  them  to  a  German.  I  seen  you. 
We  all  seen  you.  And  none  at  all  to  the  English 
soldier.  We  all  seen  that  too."  All  this  from  Mr. 
Brunt,  the  blacksmith. 

Miss  Fuller  put  forth  her  lower  lip  and  put  on  a 


208  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

stubborn  and  assertive  air.  "  I  never  gin  no  apples 
to  no  Germans,"  she  repeated.  "  I  give  they  apples 
to  a  soldier— a  laughing  one." 

Old  Mr.  Ashby,  who  is  Nicey's  uncle  when  he 
remembers  it,  remembered  it  now,  and  assumed  a 
less  angry  expression.  Putting  a  hand  on  each 
thigh  to  steady  himself,  he  crooked  his  knees,  thus 
reducing  his  stature  to  an  equality  with  that  of 
Eunice,  and  he  smiled  at  Eunice,  and  the  end  of  his 
long  grey  beard  made  contact  with  Eunice's  chin 
and  tickled  it. 

"  Tis  true  he  did  laugh,  that  chap  you  gin  they 
apples  to,"  he  admitted,  with  reference  to  Eunice's 
last  assertion,  "  and  'tis  true  he  were  a  soldier ;  but 
he  were  a  German  all  the  same,  a  German  soldier." 

Eunice  Fuller  stepped  back  a  pace  and  rubbed  the 
tickle  from  her  chin.  Then  she  smiled  incredulously 
at  her  uncle's  little  joke.  "  That  laughing  one  a 
German  ?  Ha  !  Ha  !  You  won't  catch  me  out  that 
way,  Uncle  Ashby ! "  Miss  Fuller  laughed  and 
wriggled. 

"  I  ain't  a-catching  you,  my  little  maid,"  protested 
Mr.  Ashby.  "I'm  a-tallin'  you  the  truth  of  what 
yoii  done,  so  as  you  can  be  more  cautious  the  next 
time,  and  not  go  giving  apples  to  a  German." 

"  I  never  gin  no  apples  to  a  German,"  again 
repeated  Eunice.  "  I  gin  them  to  a  laughing 
soldier." 

She  looked  at  her  uncle  with  a  puzzled  expression, 
as  if  doubtful  whether  his  remarks  were  offered 
seriously,  or  were  prompted  by  his  well-known  zest 
for  harmless  merriment.  But  here  Mr.  Brunt  inter- 


THE  LAUGHING  SOLDIER  209 

posed.  Mr.  Brunt's  face  had  been  undergoing 
changes  of  expression,  and  the  expression  which  it 
now  wore  was  one  of  extreme  indecision,  as  he  tilted 
his  hat  and  scratched  his  head. 

"  Ton  my  word,  Mr.  Ashby,"  he  said,  "  I'm 
a-wondering  if  this  maiden  ain't  got  the  laugh  on  us 
after  all.  That  fellar's  face  was  mighty  similar. 
These  land- working  uniforms  is  all  much  of  a  like." 

Mr.  Ashby  slowly  straightened  himself,  and  blinked 
at  his  friend  in  acknowledgment  of  a  responsive 
doubt  "  Now  you  mention  it,  Mr.  Brunt,"  he 
admitted,  "  the  fellar  did  look  English  like." 

"  Perhaps  he  was  an  Englishman  after  all," 
suggested  Miss  Miggins.  "  Eunice's  eyes  are  sharper 
then  ours." 

The  Grand  Duchess  delivered  judgment.  "  We 
are  all  very  silly  people  and  Eunice  is  the  wise  one. 
Of  course  that  soldier  was  English.  He  laughed  so 
pleasantly." 

But  then  I  interfered  and  mentioned  that  the 
soldier  had  asked  me  the  time  in  German. 

At  this  all  the  inquisitors  turned  again  to  Eunice 
and  stared  at  her  sternly.  And  old  Mr.  Ashby  again 
stooped  and  tickled  her  chin  with  his  beard.  As  I 
saw  that  Eunice  was  very  shortly  going  to  cry,  I 
came  away  and  wrote  out  this. 


0 


XXVIII 

Three-Pun-Ten 


I  BEGIN  with  the  horse,  because  the  pedestrian 
efforts  of  that  creature  brought  me  into  contact 
with  the  other  ones. 

The  horse  to  which  I  refer  is  poor  old  Three-Pun- 
Ten,  an  animal  who  before  the  war-hay  killed  him 
was  sold  for  that  sum  of  money  into  my  service,  and 
who  put  all  his  stout  old  heart  into  the  task  of 
pulling  our  waggon  from  one  end  of  Sussex  to  the 
other.  I  bought  the  horse  at  public  auction,  and 
I  am  now  going  to  set  down  the  solemn  truth  con- 
cerning the  transaction. 

The  lady  who  shares  my  hearth  and  other  vicissi- 
tudes was  the  prime  mover  in  the  business.  She 
had,  with  difficulty,  pursuaded  our  local  craftsman, 
Mr.  Tunks,  to  forgo  his  native  passion  for  an 
economical  colour  called  plum  red,  and  to  finish  the 
pony  waggon  in  bright  green,  with  white  facings. 
She  then  declared  that,  failing  a  green  horse,  which 
our  remote  and  unprogressive  village  could  not 
readily  supply,  a  white  horse  and  no  other  was 

210 


THREE-PUN-TEN  211 

essential  to  the  completion  of  her  colour  scheme. 
And,  by  an  embarrassing  stroke  of  fortune,  news  was 
forthwith  brought  to  her  of  this  auction  sale,  where 
a  horse  of  the  requisite  hue  was  to  be  publicly 
bartered.  I  was  forthwith  hustled  into  a  hard, 
green  hat  and  carried  off  to  Snape's  Farm. 

Here,  in  the  presence  of  the  ripest  agricultural 
intellect  of  this  county,  I  was  invited  to  feel  a 
horse's  legs. 

"There's  legs!"  said  the  auctioneer.  "Now 
look  at  his  teeth." 

The  horse  at  this  moment  happened  to  sneer  at 
me,  so  that  I  was  able  to  obey  even  this  somewhat 
harsh  command.  "  There's  teeth  !  "  exclaimed  the 
auctioneer,  adding,  "  And  ten  ?  Shall  I  say  '  And 
ten/  Mr.  L.  ?  " 

I  nodded  to  the  auctioneer,  who  was  standing 
on  a  wheelbarrow  and  who  held  a  mallet  in  his  hand. 
I  had  no  sooner  nodded  than  the  auctioneer,  sudden- 
ly and  violently,  hit  the  wheelbarrow  with  the 
mallet,  and  I  found  that  the  horse  was  mine  and 
that  I  was  expected  to  take  hold  of  the  thing  which 
was  fastened  to  his  face  and  lead  him  home. 

So  Three-Pun-Ten  leaned  up  against  me — he  had 
recognised  a  fellow-hack,  no  doubt — and,  thus 
intimately  conjoined,  we  staggered  home.  Some  of 
the  ripe  neighbours — the  ripest — laughed  a  little 
when  we  started  ;  but  most  of  them  were  in  tears. 
They  had  been  unripe  once.  They,  too,  had  bought 
their  first  horse. 

The  homeward  journey  was  a  slow  and  arduous 
performance,  broken  by  several  brief  pauses,  as 


212  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

Three-Pun-Ten  coughed,  or,  with  a  dazed  and 
stupefied  expression,  regarded  the  grass  all  round 
him.  And  we  halted,  once,  for  a  rather  lengthy 
period,  when  my  companion  went  into  a  shop  and 
bought  a  sack  wherewith  to  conceal  the  more 
salient  points  of  Three-Pun-Ten.  At  last  we  reached 
home  ;  and  then  we  put  him  into  a  meadow  and  went 
indoors  and  drank  a  lot  of  cider  in  order  to  forget 
him. 

But  this  is  an  age  of  marvels.  Would  you  believe 
that  Three-Pun-Ten  was  not  really  a  thin  horse  at 
all  ?  He  was  merely  a  hungry  horse.  In  our 
meadow,  parts  of  which  are  profusely  covered  with 
grass,  he  thrived  exceedingly.  Two  days  after 
joining  us  he  left  off  leaning  ;  on  the  third  day  he 
refused  to  have  his  legs  felt ;  on  the  sixth  day  he 
yawned  when  we  patted  him  ;  on  the  seventh  day 
he  kicked.  He  weighed  more  than  the  Vicar  before 
he  had  been  with  us  for  a  month.  After  eight 
weeks  of  steady  feeding,  he  became  the  most 
clerical-looking  horse  in  all  the  broad  county  of 
Sussex.  He  shed  the  sharp  points.  His  ribs 
disappeared.  He  developed  a  modest,  hesitating 
manner.  His  eyelids  drooped.  He  ceased  to  walk  ; 
he  progressed  in  a  dignified  manner.  He  would 
often  stop  to  think. 

Three-Pun-Ten  had  evidently  graduated  in  the 
railway  service.  Trains  excited  him.  The  shriek 
of  a  steam-whistle,  however  distant,  disturbed  his 
wonted  lethargy,  and  he  would  break  out  into  a 
wild  and  palpitating  amble,  which  suddenly  sub- 
sided when  he  realised  that  he  had  been  beguiled 


THREE-PUN-TEN  213 

by  that  foolish  process  known  as  the  Association 
of  Ideas  :  that  we  were  not  preaching  in  Lewes  to- 
day, after  all,  and  were  at  liberty  to  resume  our 
meditations  upon  the  predatory  habits  of  the  may- 
fly. Clerical,  did  I  say  ?  Pooh  to  your  clerics  ! 
Three-Pun-Ten  in  his  final  phase  would  not  have 
disgraced  the  chaise  of  a  prelate.  He  looked  like  a 
horse  who  ought  to  live  in  Chichester  and  muse 
along  before  the  timid  chariots  of  the  august,  the 
Gaitered  ! 

Instead  of  which,  he  pulled  our  pony-waggon. 
Let  me  tell  you  that  he  pulled  it  very  well  and 
steadily,  and  that  he  looked  extremely  handsome, 
with  brass  on  his  harness  and  a  rosette  at  each  ear. 

One  of  the  first  things  we  found  on  the  public 
road  was  a  perfect  English  Gentleman  ;  the  kind 
who  does  not  speak  until  he's  spoken  to.  He  was 
a  thin,  clean-shaven  gentleman  with  hair  severely 
brushed  back  from  a  protruding  brow.  He  wore  a 
semi-clerical  collar  and  a  hook-on  tie  and  he  rode  a 
high  bicycle  with  three  or  more  speeds  and  looked 
down  and  about  him  with  a  "  Why  wasn't  I  told  ?  " 
expression.  One  somehow  gained  the  idea  that  he 
was  a  schoolmaster. 

This  gentleman  rode  before  us  all  the  way  from 
Cross-in-Hand  to  High-and-Over  Hill.  Now  and 
again,  he  smiled,  very  faintly,  and  with  an  air  of 
quiet  self-possession.  I  wondered  why  he  did  this 
and  why  he  always  looked  at  us  while  doing  so — 
turning  sideways  on  his  bicycle  in  order  to  look 
steadily.  But,  at  the  foot  of  High-and-Over,  I 
found  out  why  :  for  something  sudden  happened  to 


214  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

the  waggon  and  I  fell  away  from  it  and  hit  my  head 
upon  the  roadway — hard.  After  a  prolonged  pause, 
I  got  up  from  the  roadway  and  saw  that  a  wheel 
(the  front,  offside  wheel  to  be  precise  and  technical) 
had  parted  from  us,  shedding  innumerable  spokes 
and  spikes  and  things  in  the  process.  The  school- 
master had  alighted  from  his  bicycle  and  stood  by 
my  side,  smiling  benignly. 

"  I  rather  thought  that  your  spokes  were  working 
loose,"  remarked  this  gentleman.  "  It  began  to 
happen  just  this  side  of  Cross-in-Hand.  They  came 
out  one  by  one.  Perhaps  you  saw  me  looking  at 
you  ?  " 

The  complete  sanity  and  self-possession  of  this 
gentleman  infuriated  me,  and  I  received  his  re- 
miniscences with  a  marked  absence  of  warmth, 
and  he  went  away.  Then,  in  order  to  restore  my 
faith  in  the  intrinsic  wisdom  of  the  human  race,  I 
got  into  conversation  with  a  roadside  idiot.  (This 
was  while  the  wheel  was  being  re-assembled  by  a 
roadside  wheelwright,  together  with  his  under- 
secretary, and  the  latter's  boy-help.) 

The  idiot  was  a  quiet-looking  lad,  not  extrava- 
gantly different  from  the  other  lads  of  High-and- 
Over  Hill.  But  he  had  an  aggrieved  manner,  a 
brooding  eye,  and  very  soft  hands.  Also,  he  was 
eating  a  swede  turnip  :  eating  it  with  deliberation 
and  gusto. 

All  the  same,  I  should  never  have  suspected  this 
young  man  of  mental  infirmity.  It  was  he  himself 
who  mentioned  it.  I  had  asked  him  to  direct  me  to 
an  inn,  and  he  answered  thus  : 


THREE-PUN-TEN  215 

'Tis  no  use  you  arstin'  me.    No  manner  o'  use 
I  be  the  village  idiot." 

I  laughed  pleasantly,  in  the  knowing  manner  of  one 
who  is  versed  in  the  subleties  of  democratic  humour. 
But— 

"  'Tain't  naarthun  to  laugh  at,"  protested  my 
young  friend.  "  I  be  the  village  idiot." 

"  Who  says  so  ?  "  I  enquired. 

"  Everybody  says  so.     'Tis  what  they  calls  me." 

"  But  why  do  they  call  you  that  ?  " 

"  Because  I  don't  go  out  to  work,"  replied  the 
young  man. 

"  But  why  don't  you  go  out  to  work  ?  " 

"  Because  I  goos  fishun'." 

"  That,"  I  said,  after  a  little  thought,"  is  clever 
of  you." 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  young  man,  "  I  be  very 
clever.  That's  the  joke  of  it  all.  'Ave  a  lump  of 
turnip  ?  " 

Being  a  food  reformer  and  humanitarian,  I  don't 
eat  turnip.  It  isn't  fair  to  the  poor  dumb  creatures 
who  depend  on  turnip  for  their  winter  pleasures. 
I  said,  looking  at  my  young  friend  with  a  firm  eye, 
"  Your  joke  is  one  of  those  jokes  which  can't  last, 
you  know." 

"  Certainly  not,"  he  agreed.  "  They'll  stop  me 
fishun'  one  day.  Then  I  shall  turn  out  a  bad  'un." 

"  How  bad  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Very  bad,"  he  answered. 

"  But  in  what  way  bad  ?  "  I  persisted. 

"  Goo  about  and  pinch  things,"  he  explained. 
"  Goo  about  with  rabbit  skins,  and  sleep  in  a  tent 


216  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

longside  the  'edges.  Goo  killun'  birds,  I  will. 
Onless  I  takes  to  preachin'.  I  got  the  roight 
looks  for  a  preacher." 

He  was  not  mistaken  in  this.  His  brooding  eye 
was  calculated  to  win  the  most  abandoned  mind 
from  vain  and  cheerful  thoughts. 

"  Or  perhaps,"  continued  the  Idiot,  "  I  could 
learn  to  frow  meself  about,  and  be  a  Comic  Man,  like 
you  see  on  the  pictures.  I  did  fall  downstairs  once, 
and  it  never  'urt  me.  Or  else,  if  anybody  was  to 
give  me  a  'orse,  I  could  go  and  be  a  jockey.  'Ten- 
nerate,  I'll  never  take  to  wheelwrightin' — not 
quietly,  I  won't." 

"  But  why  won't  you  be  put  to  wheelwrighting  ? 
It's  a  good  trade.  And  an  honest  one,"  I  added,  not 
then  having  counted  the  cost  of  affording  entertain- 
ment to  a  schoolmaster  : — 

i  s.   d. 

To  clearing,  cleaning,  and  reboxing  old  hub  020 

To  testing  old  hub  010 

To  making  new  hub,  8|  by  4J,  boring  and 

finish  ng  same  040 

Man's  time,  ditto  0,  2  0 

Material,  ditto  010 

Making,  setting  and  finishing  one  set  of 

spokes,  new  front  wheel  ...  ...  ...  060 

Felloe  ditto  030 

Setting  ditto 030 

Boxing  hub  and  finding  new  bolts  and  wedges  020 

Boy,  fetching  bolts,  1-in 009 

,,     returning  with  same    ...         ...         ...  009 

,,  fetching  bolts,  f-in 009 

Man's  time  026 

Unseating  old  tyre  and  shutting  same  on 

new  wheel    ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  0     3     0 

Making,  finishing,  boxing,  and  tyring  new 

wheel  076 

Fitting  same ...  010 

Man's  time  010 

£2     1     3 


THREE-PUN-TEN  217 

"  Why  don't  you  want  to  be  a  wheelwright  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  'Ammer,  'ammer,  'ammer,"  replied  the  Idiot. 

"  But  think  of  the  money  you  could  earn,"  I 
argued. 

"  Money  bean't  no  use  to  me  :  nor  yet  'ammering. 
I  should  'ammer  their  'eads  with  it." 

"  Whose  heads  ?  " 

"  People's.     They  got  sich  lumpin'  'eads." 

"  That  is  true,"  I  admitted  ;   "  but—  " 

"  Look  at  that  man's  'ead,"  interpolated  the  Idiot. 
"  What's  the  use  of  a  'ead  like  that,  on'y  to  'ammer 
it  ?" 

The  gentleman  referred  to,  a  person  of  austere 
deportment,  walked  past  us  and  bade  the  Idiot 
"  Good  evening,"  in  a  meeting-house  voice. 

The  Idiot  clutched  at  his  partly  devoured  turnip, 
pressing  it  close  to  his  waistcoat. 

"R!"  he  mused.  "They  can  all  say  'Good 
evening !  '  when  ye  got  anything.  Other  times, 
'tis  'Git  out  o'  moi  road,  ye  fool." 

With  a  very  wise  deflection  of  the  eyelid,  he  poked 
his  turnip  into  a  pocket  and  walked  away,  looking 
wouderfully  unconcerned. 


XXIX 

Jim-Jam 


"  FOR  East  is  East  and  West  is  West,"  says  the  wise 
Mr.  Kipling  ;  "  and  never  the  two  (or  was  it  twain  ?) 
shall  meet."  But  I  am  not  so  sure  about  this,  since 
making  the  acquaintance  of  Jim-Jam  Bhoy. 

Four  years  have  passed  since  I  met  Mr.  Jim,  in 
the  spring  of  1915  :  but  I  remember  this  warrior 
very  distinctly. 

It  was  Mr.  Ephraim  Bunter,  of  Polecat  Farm,  who 
brought  the  Jam  to  my  notice.  I  had  asked  Mr. 
Bunter  if  he  could  find  some  quiet  rabbits  to  be  shot 
at  by  a  wounded  soldier  named  Smiff,  and  Mr. 
Bunter  replied  as  follows  : 

"  Oi  woon't  say  as  they  rarbutts  be  that  owdacious 
on  moi  farm  they  would  foller  a  lame  man  round  the 
turnups.  But  oi  will  say  as  they  be  owdacious 
enough.  They  be  owdacious  enough  to  orfer  some 
sport  to  a  lame  man  if  on'y  'e  can  'obble  any  sense  at 
all.  If  you  was  to  bring  your  lame  soldier  along  on 

218 


JIM-JAM  219 

Thursday  arternoon,  the  same  as  I  say,  that  will  goo 
'ard  if  us  don't  find  a  scut  or  two  to  shoot  at." 

I  thanked  Mr.  Bunter  for  his  kind  invitation,  and 
told  him  that  Mr.  Smiff  and  myself,  all  being  in 
order  and  the  crutches  going  well,  might  be  expected 
to  arrive  at  Polecat  Farm  not  later  than  eleven 
o'clock  on  Thursday  morning. 

"  Good  !  "  said  Mr.  Bunter.  "  There'll  be  a  young 
friend  'o  mine  theer  :  a  young  brown  fellar,  a  very 
noice  young  fellar,  of  the  name  o'  Jim-jam,  or  Boy." 

The  colour  of  Mr.  Bunter' s  friend  appeared  to  be 
unusual.  Also  his  name.  I  said  to  Mr.  Bunter, 
"  Why  these  alternatives  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Mr.  Bunter.  "  What  be  an  all 
turny  toe  ?  " 

"  To  put  it  differently,"  I  said,  "  why  do  you 
sometimes  call  your  brown  friend  '  Jim- jam '  and 
at  other  times  '  Boy  '  ?  " 

"  R  "  !  exclaimed  Mr.  Bunter.  "  Now  I  got  you. 
You  see,  sir,  this  here  little  brown  fellar — a  very  nice 
young  fellar  he  be—  he  come  from  abroad.  He  come 
from  Injer.  He  be  what  they  calls  a  Gerker.  And 
Jim-Jam,  that's  the  name  as  he  do  go  by,  unless 
Jim-Boy,  unless  Jam-boy.  But  his  real  name,  so  he 
tell  me,  that  be  Mukto." 

"I     ...    see!" 

"  Well,  then,"  continued  Mr.  Bunter,  "  we  calleth 
he  Jim-Jam,  unless  we  call  he  Jim-Boy,  or  else  Jam- 
Boy.  He  come  from  abroad,  d'ye  see  ?  He  come 
from  Injer." 

I  saw. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Bunter,  "  they  got  a  more 


220  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

partickler  way  o'  callin'  theirselfs  out  there,  abroad 
in  Injer.  There's  more  than  just '  Alf  '  in  it.  See  ?" 

Again  I  saw. 

"  A  nice  young  fellar  he  be  ;  a  very  nice  young 
fellar,  this  here  young  Gerker  chap,"  continued  Mr. 
Bunter.  "  He've  orfen  told  me  about  his  home  an' 
family,  an'  all  that,  abroad,  in  Injer.  A  sort  o' 
farmer  his  father  seem  to  be,  and  a  sort  o'  merchant, 
likewise.  They  seem  to  live  up  high,  like,  from  what 
he  tell  me.  They  got  a  bit  o'  land  upon  a  hill,  like, 
some  distance  from  a  railway  station.  He's  father 
he  grow  rice  and  barley,  he  do  ;  and  he  foller  a  bit 
o'  trade,  likewise  :  leather  an'  cutlery  an'  salt  an'  all 
that.  A  very  respectable,  old-fashioned  family, 
from  what  young  Jim-Jam  tell  me.  Young  Jim-Jam 
he  tell  me  as  he  don't  think  a  lot  o'  the  way  we  grows 
our  barley  hereabouts.  We  ploughs  too  deep,  his 
way  o'  thinkin'.  But  then,  again,  that  seem  if  they 
grows  their  barley  different  down  his  way.  They 
don't  let  that  come  to  perfection,  not  according  to 
moi  idea.  'Tis  the  oold  story  :  different  parishes, 
different  principles." 

"  What  brings  young  Jim- Jam  to  England  ?  "  I 
enquired. 

"  That's  a  long  story,"  responded  Mr.  Bunter. 
"  He  didn't  come  to  England,  not  at  first.  He  come 
to  France,  along  of  his  regiment.  But  him  and  his 
officer,  they  both  got  gas,  on  the  same  day,  in  the 
same  engagement.  They  Germans,  they  give  'em 
the  gas  that  strong  some  of  'em  fair  died  of  it.  Some 
others  they  on'y  took  a  quame,  as  we  say.  Well, 
this  here  young  Jam-Boy  he  took  a  quame,  and  his 


JIM-JAM  221 

orficer,  he  took  a  quame.  And  the  both  on  'em,  they 
was  brought  to  England. 

"  But  this  young  fellar's  orficer,  who  should  he  be 
but  young  Captain  Hopper,  son  o'  Squire  Hopper, 
him  at  Quimper's  Hall,  in  Pucklefield.  So,  when 
young  Jim-Jam  come  out  o'  the  hospital,  young 
Captain  Hopper,  he  fetched  him  over  to  the  Hall, 
and  there  he  be,  a  looking  arter  his  master  an'  the 
polo  ponies  an'  that." 

I  need  not  describe  Mr.  Bunter's  shooting  party — 
or,  at  least,  not  very  fully.  Mr.  Mukto,  Jim-Jam 
Boy — if  that  were  indeed  his  name — killed  seven 
rabbits.  Mr.  Bunter  killed  eight.  I  killed  none, 
having  neither  gun  nor  heart  at  my  disposal  for  that 
sort  of  work.  Rifleman  Smiff  limped  round  the 
fields  with  an  ancient  muzzle-loader,  which  some- 
times went  off  and  sometimes  didn't.  He  pointed 
it  at  some  twenty  rabbits.  It  discharged  itself  at 
six,  of  which  he  missed  five  and  mangled  one.  The 
light  failed  early. 

At  five  o'clock  we  all  sat  down  in  Mrs.  Bunter's 
kitchen,  where  loaves  and  tea  and  jam  and  butter 
decked  the  board  ;  likewise  tinned  salmon,  and  a 
baked  confection  called  "  Sussex  Plum  Heavy." 
Respecting  the  last-named  accessories,  Mr.  Jim-Jam 
uttered  eulogies. 

"  Good  meat,"  he  said.     "  Good  cake." 

When  these  attractive  things  had  been  eaten,  Mrs. 
Bunter  went  away,  taking  the  empty  plates  and 
dishes  and  tea-cups  with  her.  There  remained  four 
men — representing  the  respective  psychologies  of 
East  and  West. 


222  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

Mr.  Bunter  invited  us  to  sit  in  the  chimney  corner  ; 
but  in  close  proximity  to  that  retreat  there  were 
barrels. 

"  Now,  gennelmen,"  said  Mr.  Bunter,  "  what'll  ye 
drink  ?  There's  beer,  there's  coider,  there's  ginger 
ale,  there's  gin,  there's  whisky." 

"  Beer,"  said  Rifleman  Smiff. 

Mr.  Bunter  took  whisky.  I,  of  course,  took  ginger 
ale.  Jim-Boy  looked  doubtful.  At  last,  after 
thinking  deeply,  he  said  : 

"  All  the  same.  Beer,  cider,  ginger,  whisky,  gin. 
All  the  same." 

"  Try  'em  mixed,  corporal !  "  suggested  Mr.  Smiff. 

"  Good  !  "  exclaimed  Jam-Boy,  the  Gerker.  "  I 
try  it  mix."  Which  he  did,  without  visible  results 
of  any  kind  whatever. 

Jim-Jam  Boy  sipped  contentedly  from  his  glass. 
At  his  right  hand,  in  the  chimney  corner,  there  was  a 
little  leaded  window,  which  afforded  a  view  of  Mr. 
Bunter's  principal  treasures.  These  included  a  fine 
colt,  chickens,  pigs,  cows,  and  some  rich  manure. 

Mr.  Jim-Jam  Boy  inspected  these  assets  with  a 
benignant  eye.  "  Dirt  good,"  he  said.  "  Good  for 
rice.  Pigs  no  good.  Chickens  very  good.  Cows.." 

At  that  point,  Mr.  Jim- Jam  Boy  became  incom- 
prehensible. But  Mr.  Bunter,  who  enjoyed  the 
advantages  conferred  by  a  six  weeks'  acquaintance- 
ship with  that  nice  young  fellah,  was  able  to  translate 
him. 

"  He  say,"  said  Mr.  Bunter,  "  as  the  brown  cow 
have  got  the  best  heart  of  'em  all.  But  he  say  I  have 
overmilked  her.  He  say  it  were  time  she  be  took 


JIM-JAM  223 

from  the  herd.  He  say  she  would  be  better  for 
another  calf.  'Tis  very  true  what  he  say." 

Rifleman  Smiff  then  spoke. 

"  Where  did  ya  cop  that  lot  o'  gas  ?  "  he  said. 
"  Did  ya  cop  it  at  Matteaux  ?  " 

"  Right :  me  catch  it  there,"  replied  the  Gerker. 
"  Me  belong  one  hundred  eight  division.  Me  become 
sick.  Captain  too.  Me  kill  five  German.  Me  kill 
with  hand.  German  no  good.  He  kill  with  smoke. 
He  run  away.  He  kill  with  smoke." 

"  Some  smoke,  though,"  said  Rifleman  Smiff. 

"  Oh,  yes.  Some  smoke,"  assented  Jim- Jam  Boy. 
"  German  clever  dog,  but  dirty." 

"That's  him,"  said  the  Rifleman.  "But  too 
clever." 

"  Too  clever,"  echoed  the  Gerker.  "  One  day  we 
bite  him." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Mr.  Smiff.  "  One  day  we'll 
bite  his  bluggy  head  off.  Nasty  place,  Matteaux. 
Any  good  be'ind  ?  " 

"  Good  behind  ?  "  said  Jim- Jam  Boy.  "  Oh,  yes. 

Billets  very  good  and "  Mr.  Jim  Boy  again 

became  incomprehensible. 

Mr.  Bunter,  offering  a  convenient,  if  rough, 
translation  of  Mr.  Jam  Boy's  comments,  represented 
him  as  having  said  that  the  billets  behind  the 
trenches  contained  good  straw  and  that  associated 
with  these  billets  was  a  farm-house  containing 
coffee — good  coffee,  chickens — fat  chickens,  and 
ladies — kind  ladies. 

"  Any  beer  ?  "  said  Mr.  Smiff. 

"  No,  responded  Mr.  Jim- Jam  Boy  "  No  beer, 
but  plenty  wine." 


224  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  Wine,"  cried  the  Rifleman.  "  Red  wine.  What 
ho !  And  good-hearted  smiling  Frenchy  girls. 
What  ho  !  Give  me  the  Army.  Give  me  France. 
Give  it  me  all,  bar  the  war." 

"  What  ho  !  "  repeated  the  un-meetable  little 
brown  man.  He  then  added  these  words  : 

"  Beer,  cider,  ginger,  whisky,  gin  :  all  very  good. 
Army  very  good.  France  very  good.  Girls  very 
good.  War  very  bad.  What  ho  !  " 


XXX 

The  Poskman-Poskman 

An  Epic  Poem 

CANTO  I 
Deep  down  in  Marshy  Hollow,  where  the  osiers 

abound, 

A  cottage  may  be  found. 
And  here  the  village  Postman  wore  his  hair  a  little 

long 
And  wove  a  net  of  song. 

Compact  of  brilliantine  and  brain, 
He  held  that  goods  were  little  gain, 
But  wooed  the  coy  diphthong. 
The  Postman-Poet,  justly  famed, 
His  soul  was  far  and  wide  proclaimed : 
And  he  was  rather  aptly  named 
Sid  Long. 

There,  in  his  bower  of  minstrelsy, 
We  did  foregather,  he  and  I  : 
And  he  would  give  me  gifts  of  rhyme, 
p  225 


226  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

And  letters,  too,  from  time  to  time. 
And  he  would  make  this  proud  decree : 
"  The  only  Postman-Poet,  Me." 
And  then  he  joined  the  Army. 

CANTO  II 
All  down  in  Marshy  Hollow,  where  the  water-weeds 

excel, 

Another  came  to  dwell. 
The  Postman-Painter  this  one  was  and  was  it  very 

much. 

He  painted  sows  and  such, 
With  thumb  and  knife,  he  did  express 
His  utter  scorn  for  mere  "  finesse," 
And  lived  for  being  Dutch. 
His  thumb  was  far  and  wide  proclaimed 
He  was  appropriately  named 
Ed.  Hutch. 

There,  in  his  marshy  studio, 
His  canvases  would  grow  and  grow, 
And  I  would  view  those  works  of  art, 
And  get  my  letters,  and  depart, 
While  he  would  hint,  with  gesture  free, 
That  England's  Jacob  Cuyp  was  he. 
And  then  he  joined  the  Army. 

CANTO  III 
It  was  in   Marshy  Hollow,  where  the    King-Cup 

spreads  its  face, 
A  P.S.A.  took  place. 
The  Postman-Preacher  did  arise  to  gird  at  worldly 

hope, 


THE  POSKMAN-POSKMAN  227 

And  criticise  the  Pope. 

This  fellow  was  a  man  of  words, 

And  flourished  them  about  like  swords, 

Nor  limited  their  scope. 

His  zeal  and  bigotry  were  famed, 

And  he  was  reverently  named 

Rev.  Jope. 

There,  in  his  damp  consistory, 

We  studied  Bible  history, 

And,  while  my  correspondence  waited, 

We  talked  of  girls  and  things  we  hated. 

And  Jope  would  modestly  submit 

That  Postman-Saints  were  rather  IT  : 

And  then  he  got  his  A.F.  W-3236. 

CANTO  IV 

In  marshy,  Marshy  Hollow,  where  the  yellow  weeds 

are  rife, 

Came  next  a  man  of  strife 
The  Postman-Politician  this,  who  argued  high  and 

low. 

Nor  ever  argued  slow. 
He  thought  extremely  ill  of  Kings 
And  Earls  and  Editors  and  things, 
And  gave  them  all  what -ho  ! 
The  "  People's  Palmerston/'  installed 
By  popular  acclaim,  and  called 
Bill  Blow. 

And,  in  his  domicile  fungoid, 
Our  minds  were  mutually  employed, 
And  when  he'd  cursed  the  ruling  clan 
My  letters  sort  of  "  also  ran," 


228  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

A  most  engaging  lad  was  Blow  : 
And  pity  'twas  he  had  to  go — 
To  Dartmoor. 

CANTO  V 

Not  far  from  Marshy  Hollow,  on  a  less  aquatic  spot, 
Stands  another  little  cot. 
And  here  the  humble  author  keepeth  domicile  and 

dog, 

And  burns  the  midnight  log. 
And  unto  him  there  journeyed  one 
Whose  earthly  course  was  nearly  run  : 
Whose  feet  were  splayed  and  flat. 
And  this  old  man,  who  was  so  poor, 
He  carried  letters  to  my  door, 
And  touched,  with  crooked  finger  fore, 
His  hat. 

"  Old  man,  old  man,"  I  said  to  him, 
"  I  wish  you  would  explain  this  whim  : 
"  What  kind  of  Postman  can  you  be 
"  Who  bring  my  letters  unto  me  ?  " 
And  he  replied,  with  palate  cleft : 
"  The  only  Poskman-Pos&waw  left." 
And  then  he  got  Bronchitis. 


XXXI 

Stolen  Grass 


PLEASE  have  the  goodness  to  look  back  with  me. 
It  is  August,  1912,  and  we  are  out  with  the  pony- 
waggon.  There  are  three  of  us — SHE  and  I  and 
Three-Pun-Ten.  It  is  our  first  trip  and  we  are  all, 
at  first,  a  little  bit  uncomfortable — SHE  because 
she  mistrusts  my  power  to  drive  and  control  a  pony- 
waggon,  I  because  I  mistrust  her  power  to  trust  me, 
and  Three-Pun-Ten  because  his  harness  hurts.  It 
would,  the  way  I  have  fixed  it. 

Three-Pun-Ten,  I  may  have  already  explained, 
is  a  well-bred,  white  cob  gelding.  A  man  of  my 
parish — an  honest  sort  of  fellow,  whom  magisterial 
prejudice  is  persistently  convicting  of  poaching — 
"  put  me  on  "  to  Three-Pun-Ten.  It  was  a  poor  sort 
of  animal  to  look  at,  he  said,  but  looks  weren't 
everything,  and  this  horse  had  been  insufficiently 
nourished,  He  would  probably  sell  for  a  pund  a  leg, 
and,  if  I  bought  him  at  that  price  and  then  looked 
arter  him,  I  should  have  bought  a  bargain.  In 

229 


230  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

point  of  fact,  I  got  him  for  seventeen  and  sixpence 
a  leg  and  was  charged  nothing  at  all  for  a  greasy  heel. 
But  after  three  months  at  grass,  and  a  little  veterin- 
ary attention,  the  old  drudge  was  completely 
restored  to  health  and  cheerfulness. 

And  the  pony-waggon !  Have  I  forgotten  to 
explain  about  that  ?  Well,  it  is  a  sort  of  dwelling- 
house  on  wheels  :  what  refined  people  call  a 
caravan. 

By  this  I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  our  pony- 
waggon  is  an  authentic  caravan — a  "  land-yacht  " 
or  portable  hotel.  Ours  is  just  a  four-wheeled 
waggon,  with  a  waterproof  superstructure  and  in- 
ternal conveniences.  We  are  constructed  for  use, 
hard  wear  and  portability,  and  weigh  ten  hundred- 
weight, fully  loaded. 

Your  authentic  caravan,  on  the  other  hand, 
weighs  about  two  tons  unladen.  It  has  the  appear- 
ance of  a  pantechnicon,  the  mobility  of  a  cricket 
pavilion  and  the  comforts  of  a  hen-coop.  It  is 
drawn  by  two  stout  horses  and  is  usually  driven  by  a 
too  stout  coachman — a  fine,  old,  crusted  coachman 
in  a  cockaded  hat.  Another  cockade  precedes  him, 
upon  the  head  of  a  colleague,  who  rides  a  spare 
horse  and  wears  a  yellow  belt.  On  our  very  first 
day  out  with  the  Pony-Waggon,  we  found  a  Caravan, 
just  like  this.  It  was  pounding  its  way  into  the 
County  Borough  of  Lewes,  and,  when  it  reached  us, 
it  stopped,  and  he  in  the  yellow  belt  rode  up  to  me 
and  said  : 

"  Young  man,  will  you  kindly  step  up  to  our 
Caravan  ?  My  mistress  wishes  to  speak  to  you." 


STOLEN  GRASS  231 

We  stepped  up  to  the  caravan,  and  were  privileged 
to  hold  converse  with  a  stout  lady,  in  emeralds.  She 
said : 

"  I  see  you  are  also  caravanning,  and  I  suppose 
you  have  come  through  Lewes.  Can  you  recommend 
me  to  a  good  hotel  there,  where  they  have  got  a 
decent,  comfortable  meadow,  with  some  shade, 
where  we  can  pull  in,  and  where  we  can  get  some 
decent  stabling  for  the  horses  and  some  decent 
chickens,  and  beds  for  the  two  men  ?  " 

I  was  unable  to  supply  the  Emeralds  with  the 
information  which  they  sought.  "  But,"  I  said, 
"  if  you  care  to  go  on  about  three  miles  beyond 
Lewes  and  will  turn  off  to  your  left  in  the  direction 
of  Plumpton,  you  will  find  a  very  decent,  disused 
chalk-pit." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  the  lady.  "  Tucker,  drive  on." 
And  she,  and  her  emeralds,  passe4  out  of  my  life 
for  ever. 

That's  what  the  noble  and  fashionable  pastime 
of  fashionable  caravanning  is  like.  The  nasty  smug 
little  meadows  at  the  back  of  public  houses.  All  the 
discomforts  of  the  English  Inn  without  its  one 
redeeming  comfort — the  lavendered  bedroom. 

Now,  we,  who  travel  with  a  Pony-Waggon,  are 
free  from  all  that  is  respectable  and  sordid.  Our 
waggon,  which  is  built  (on  Warner  wheels)  of  the 
thinnest  possible  match-boarding,  and  calico,  with 
six  coats  of  good  lead  paint,  possesses  every  reason- 
able interior  comfort,  not  excluding  feather  beds, 
and  yet  it  is  our  waggon,  to  take  us  where  we  want 
to  go.  We  are  not  tied  to  the  main  roads ;  we 


232  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

don't  have  to  crawl  along  from  inn  to  inn,  looking 
for  chickens  to  eat,  beds  for  a  retinue,  stabling  for 
our  three  fat  horses.  Three-Pun-Ten  would  as  lief 
steal  gorse-heads  out  of  a  chalk-pit  as  grass  from  the 
roadside.  As  for  stabling,  Three-Pun-Ten  knows 
which  side  of  the  van  is  the  windy  side.  And  Three- 
Pun-Ten  doesn't  care  whether  it  is  a  high-road  or  a 
by-road  or  whether  there  is  a  road  there  at  all. 
Wherever  he  can  put  his  feet  without  squidging,  he 
will  pull  the  van. 

I  am  scrawling  this  immortal  document  on  a  high 
point  of  the  South  Downs.  I  am  sitting  on  the  steps 
of  the  Pony-Waggon  to  write  it.  We  have  not  seen 
a  policeman  for  eight  days.  We  are  a  long  day's 
crawl  from  the  King's  Highway.  We  are  a  longer 
way  still  from  yellow  belts  and  emeralds  and  the 
futile  dullness  of  conventional  "  caravanning." 

But  we  did  not  get  to  the  crest  of  the  South  Downs 
without  adventures,  We  started  out — when  it  was 
our  first  trip  in  the  Pony-Waggon — with  many 
theories  and  beliefs  which  we  have  now  discarded. 
One  of  our  beliefs  concerned  the  British  Farmer. 
The  article  of  faith  which  we  discarded  first  of  all 
was  that  dry  old  legend  of  Farm-house  hospitality  to 
strangers.  Having  lived  among  Farmers  for  the 
last  some  years,  I  permitted  myself  from  the  first 
to  entertain  a  few  doubts  about  his  affection  for 
strange  people  in  waggons  ;  but  SHE,  who  had  been 
reading  a  polite  handbook  on  the  Art  of  Caravan- 
ning, cherished  false  hopes. 

We  asked  for  accommodation  at  eight  different 
farms  on  the  evening  of  the  First  Day.  What  we 


STOLEN  GRASS  233 

asked  for  was  permission  to  pull  inside  a  field,  and 
graze  the  pony,  for  which,  of  course,  we  offered  to 
pay.  After  the  eighth  rebuff,  we  found  our  chalk- 
pit and  took  it,  as  being  calculated  to  save  time. 

I  needn't  describe  our  experiences  at  each  of  the 
eight  farms.  One  experience  will  serve,  as  being 
typical  of  them  all. 

SHE,  in  a  shabby  frock,  with  poppies  in  her  hair, 
sits  in  the  forefront  of  the  Pony-Waggon,  driving 
Three-Pun-Ten.  She  orders  him  to  "  whoa  "  at  a 
farm-house  gate,  and  orders  me  to  enter  it  and  haggle. 
I  creep  out  of  the  waggon,  clothed  in  old  trousers 
and  a  travel-stained  sweater. 

Having  caught  the  farmer,  I  make  my  representa- 
tions to  that  Prize  Turnip  with  proper  humility  and 
in  proper  form.  For  a  long  time,  he  does  not 
answer  me  ;  but  stands,  with  a  gloomy  expression, 
gazing  at  my  sweater.  At  last  he  speaks  : 

THE  FARMER  :  You'll  be  one  o'  these  here  photo- 
graphers, I  suppose  ?  " 

YOUR  SERVANT  :    "  No." 

THE  FARMER  :   "  What  be  you,  then  ?  " 

YOUR  SERVANT  :    "A  vendor  of  letterpress." 

THE  FARMER  :  "  A  what  ?  " 

YOUR  SERVANT  :   "A  Mental  Deficient." 

THE  FARMER  :  "  Ho.  The  jobbin'  line,  hey  ? 
Who's  that  young  woman  you  got  along  with  you  ?  " 

YOUR  SERVANT  :  "  My  wife." 

THE  FARMER  :   "  Your  what  ?  " 

YOUR  SERVANT  :  "  My  wife." 

THE  FARMER  :  "  What  ?  With  them  old  poppies 
in  'er  'air  !  "  (Laughs  hoarsely). 


234  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

It  is  in  vain  that  we  insist  upon  the  authenticity 
of  HER.  We  swear  in  the  most  solemn  manner 
that  she  travels  with  us  under  government  licence, 
properly  stamped. 

It  is  no  use.  The  farmer  looks  at  the  poppies 
and  shakes  his  head  and  grins.  He  says,  shortly  : 
"  No  room  on  my  land.  Good  afternoon." 

As  I  turn  to  go  back  to  the  van,  he  adds,  in  an 
undertone,  "  Yar  wife,  eh  ?  That's  good.  Whoi, 
look  at  'er.  She's  laughin'." 

So,  after  experiencing  this  farmer,  and  seven 
more  like  him,  we  vote  for  the  chalk-pit,  and  the 
roadside  wastes  and  the  fat  of  the  Downs.  Never 
again  shall  we  seek  to  "  pitch  "  in  private  pastures 
or  graze  the  pony  at  our  private  charge.  And 
here  we  are,  all  snug,  in  our  Pony-Waggon,  two 
miles  from  a  house.  We  can  hear  the  distant 
muttering  of  waves,  and,  close  at  hand,  the  steady 
systematic  "  crop,  crop,  crop  "  of  Three-Pun-Ten. 
He  thrives  exceedingly  on  stolen  grass. 


XXXII 

His  Majesty's  Cure 


"  THIS  is  the  tenth  day,"  I  remarked  to  my  wife. 
"  Time's  up  on  Monday." 

"  So  I  understand,  but  I  asked  yon  if  you  would 
have  some  more  sago." 

"  No  more  sago,  thank  you.  It's  the  tenth  day 
and  I — I  don't  feel  well  enough  for  sago." 

"  Then,"  said  my  wife,  "  as  lunch  is  at  an  end,  I 
wish  you  would  go  out  into  the  garden  and  find  old 
Roberts,  and  give  him  orders  about  the  shrubbery 
He  won't  listen  to  me  at  all." 

"  Go  out  into  the  garden  and  look  for  Roberts — 
now — to-day  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  my  wife. 

"  But  this  is  within  three  of  my  last  day  at  home." 

"  I  know  that,"  replied  my  wife,  sweetly,  "  and  I 
thought  that  three  days  would  give  you  nice  time 
to  walk  to  the  end  of  the  garden." 

The  whole  thing  seemed  to  me  to  be  very  heart- 
less, but  I  did  not  argue  with  her,  although  I  may 
have  sighed  a  few  times  and  looked  rather  hurt, 

235 


236  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

as  I  asked  for  my  overcoat,  my  leggings,  my  muffler 
and  my  oilskin. 

"  But  is  it  really  necessary,"  she  objected,  "  to 
put  on  all  those  things  for  a  walk  in  the  garden  ?  " 

"  Under  the  circumstances,  yes,"  was  my  reply. 
I  pointed  out  how  necessary  it  was  for  me  to  keep 
entirely  well — that  is  to  say,  as  well  as  possible — 
until  Monday.  "  I  should  hate  to  have  to  write 
and  put  them  off,"  I  explained.  "  They  get 
suspicious.  It's  an  army  tradition." 

"  Let's  hope  you  won't  have  to  go  at  all,"  said 
my  wife.  "  After  all,"  she  added,  with  the  futile 
optimism  of  her  sex,  "  there  are  three  days  yet, 
and  a  lot  can  happen  in  three  days."  "  And," 
I  replied,  with  a  bitter  laugh,  "  there  are  ten  days 
gone,  and  the  lot  which  could  have  happened  hasn't 
happened.  How  far  down  the  garden  am  I  likely 
to  have  to  plod  before  finding  Roberts  ?  " 

"  He  will  probably  be  in  the  shed  potting  carna- 
tions. Don't  take  him  oft  it  please,  but  tell  him 
to  start  on  the  shrubbery  to-morrow.  After  that, 
I  wish  you  would  go  and  dig  me  up  a  few  roots  of 
celariac." 

I  stared  at  her  in  amazement.  "  Dig  ?  "  I 
exclaimed  :  "  Take  a  fork  and  dig  ?  A  man  of  my 
category  ?  My  dear  girl !  " 

"  It  wouldn't  hurt  you,"  she  urged. 

That  after  all  was  a  matter  of  opinion  which  I 
did  not  care  to  discuss.  I  merely  pointed  out,  with 
great  dignity,  that  I  did  not  happen  to  be  considering 
myself.  I  was  considering  the  British  Army.  It 
had  sent  me  home  as  a  Grade  III  man,  and  as  a 


HIS  MAJESTY'S  CURE  237 

Grade  III  man  it  would  expect  me  back.  Grade  III 

men  don't  dig.  "  A  man  in  my  category "  I 

began,  but  Sylvia  rudely  interrupted  me. 

"  It's  rather  urgent  about  the  celariac,  so  I  wish 
you'd  hurry,"  she  said. 

"  Grade  III  men  don't  hurry,"  I  retorted. 

I  managed  to  crawl  out  of  the  house,  and  to  get 
down  as  far  as  the  potting  shed,  and  to  find  old 
Roberts  and  give  him  some  firm  instructions  about 
the  shrubbery.  I  then  took  him  off  his  thumb-pots 
to  go  and  dig  up  celery  roots. 

While  he  was  doing  this  high-category  work,  I 
managed  to  drag  myself  round  the  garden.  On 
reaching  the  small  white  gate  behind  the  rubbish 
heap,  I  thought  it  was  time  to  take  a  rest.  So  I 
leant  on  the  gate  and  scowled  at  the  road. 

While  I  was  scowling,  two  men  appeared  at  the 
bend  of  the  road,  and  approached  me,  walking  very 
slowly  with  evident  pain  and  disinclination.  One 
of  these  men  was  big  Jack  Anscombe,  who  used  to  be 
our  village  blacksmith,  and  a  very  strong  man,  but 
who  was  now  a  Grade  III  soldier,  like  myself.  His 
companion  was  a  fellow  of  low  category,  named 
Burtenshaw  ;  a  man  who,  before  the  era  of  Com- 
pulsory Service,  had  been  champion  ploughman  of 
this  village,  but  who  now,  what  with  his  cough  and 
his  chilblains,  was  a  wreck  of  a  man. 

On  reaching  my  gate  the  two  soldiers  stopped  and 
greeted  me.  Jack  Anscombe,  who  was  spokesman, 
said  : 

"  Good  arternon,  sir.  We  'eard  as  you  be  at 
'ome.  They  aren't  fetched  ye  back  yet,  then  ?  " 


238  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"I  go  back  on  Monday — unless  otherwise 
directed." 

"  Them's  my  orders,  too,  and  Will's  here  as  well," 
replied  Mr.  Anscombe.  "  Your  garden  looks  wunner- 
ful  forward,  sir.  I  hope  you  won't  get  any  late 
frostes.  I  hope  you  won't,"  he  added  significantly. 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders  and  curled  my  lip  to 
express  a  suitable  degree  of  horticultural  cynicism. 
"  Anyhow,"  I  remarked,  "  it  won't  matter  to  me 
much,  if  I'm  not  here  to  see  it.  I  shall  probably 
be  in  Norfolk,  invoicing  drain-pipes.  If  you  fellows 
aren't  too  tired,  come  in  and  have  a  look  round." 

Messrs.  Anscombe  and  Burtenshaw  looked  at 
each  other  doubtfully.  Mr.  Anscombe  began  to 
cough  in  an  enfeebled  manner,  and  Mr.  Burtenshaw 
dragged  his  right  foot  forward,  and  regarded  it 
anxiously.  "  Well,"  he  said,  after  a  thoughtful 
pause,  "  perhaps  we  could  just  manage  to  doddle 
round." 

The  two  decepit  warriors  came  through  my  gate, 
and  we  tottered  up  the  broad  walk  three  abreast. 
The  "  look  round  "  was  a  cursory  affair,  for  our 
faltering  footsteps  brought  us  to  a  garden  seat.  In 
the  pitiable  state  of  our  health,  we  could  not  resist 
the  invitation  which  it  offered,  and  we  sat  down 
heavily,  and  warmed  our  shrunken  bodies  in  the 
February  sunshine. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Will  Burtenshaw,  speaking  in 
a  weak  voice,  and  coughing  painfully,  "  what 
they'll  do  with  me  this  time.  I'm  Grade  III  already, 
so  they  can't  put  me  no  lower  ;  and  yet  they  woon't 
discharge  me.  I  s'poose  they'll  set  me  fillin'  palli- 


HIS  MAJESTY'S  CURE  239 

asses  again,  same  as  usual.  Tur'ble  bad  for  my  corf 
that  be,  rubbaging  among  the  straw." 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  Mr.  Anscombe.  "  Driving 
those  old  lorries  has  learnt  me  to  have  a  bit  o' 
sympathy.  The  smell  o'  that  petrol  would  break 
down  the  health  of  a  giant.  It  sorfens  the  muscles. 
Look  at  that." 

As  he  spoke,  the  ex-blacksmith  whipped  up  the 
sleeves  of  his  overcoat  and  tunic,  and  exhibited  his 
forearm.  To  me  it  looked  every  bit  good  enough 
for  Longfellow — brown,  enormous,  muscular.  But 
Mr.  Anscombe  shook  his  head,  and  sighed,  and 
stared  down  at  his  arm  with  pitying  eyes.  "  Before 
the  army  shrunk  it  up  like  that,"  said  Mr.  Anscombe, 
"  that  was  a  good  arm." 

There  was  an  awkward  pause,  during  which  Mr. 
Anscombe  was  seen  to  blink,  and  heard  to  gurgle, 
while  we  sat  mute  at  this  exhibition  of  a  strong 
man's  emotion.  Mr.  Anscombe  soon  recovered  his 
habitual  expression  of  wooden  equanimity,  however  ; 
and  then,  covering  up  the  shrunken  arm,  he  put  it, 
as  it  were,  away  from  him,  and  turned  to  me. 
"  You're  looking  far  from  well  yourself,  sir,"  he 
said. 

"  So  they  tell  me,"  I  replied  with  a  brave  little 
smile  of  resignation  ;  "  but  I  daresay  I  shall  last 
a  long  time  yet." 

There  was  another  long  pause,  as  we  gazed 
despondently  at  the  sunlit  path.  Suddenly,  a 
shadow  fell  across  the  path,  and  we  all  looked  up. 
Mr.  Banks,  the  village  postman,  stood  before  us. 

"  Good  day,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Banks.     "  Not  having 


240  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

had  the  opportunity  of  seeing  you  since  Christmas 
I  thought  I  would  bring  the  letters  round  this 
afternoon  and  save  you  a  journey  to  the  house." 

I  thanked  Mr.  Banks,  and  took  the  opportunity 
of  persuading  him  to  accept  a  belated  Christmas  box. 
Among  my  letters  was  one  enclosed  in  an  oblong 
buff  envelope,  which  I  opened  first  with  hasty, 
nervous  fingers.  As  I  fumbled  with  the  envelope, 
I  heard  the  postman  speak  to  Mr.  Anscombe. 

"  There's  a  letter  for  you,  Jack,  and  one  for  you, 
Will,  too.  Will  you  take  'em  now,  and  save  me  the 
journey  ?  " 

I  don't  know  what  the  gentlemen  replied,  because 
I  was  unable  to  give  that  matter  my  attention.  I 
had  opened  my  letter  and  its  contents  were  of  a 
nature  to  make  my  head  swim.  Then  I  heard  a 
cry,  and  looked  up  to  see  the  postman,  bag  and  all, 
hooked  up  in  the  middle  branches  of  an  apple  tree. 
The  enfeebled  blacksmith  had  evidently  summoned 
up  sufficient  strength  to  put  him  there,  and  was 
dancing  wildly  round  the  tree. 

"  I'm  to  be  demobbed,  old  blue-bottle  !  D'  y' 
'ear  that  ? — demobbed  !  "  This  disrespectful  lan- 
guage was  addressed  to  Mr.  Banks,  who  still  squirmed 
and  struggled  in  the  apple  tree. 

Private  William  Burtenshaw,  in  the  meantime, 
was  standing  up  on  the  garden  seat,  singing  a  song. 
In  a  fine  bass,  quite  unblemished  by  his  unfortunate 
bronchial  affection,  he  gave  us  the  complete  chorus 
of  "  The  Farmer's  Boy."  I  couldn't,  unfortunately, 
give  it  much  attention,  as  I  was  leaping  over  cabbage 
patches  and  jumping  over  rubbish  heaps  in  order 


HIS  MAJESTY'S  CURE  241 

to  get  to  the  house.  Mr.  Burtenshaw  shouted  after 
me  : 

"  If  you  woulden  be  too  proud  sir,  and  was  any- 
wheres near  the  Cock  to-night,  damned  if  us  three 
woon't  have  a  quart  on  this." 

I  waved  at  him  wildly,  as  I  shouted  for  Sylvia, 
and  rushed  into  the  bicycle  shed.  I  thought  we 
would  take  a  quick  spin  round  to  the  Golf  Club. 

I  forget  what  became  of  the  postman. 


A  GREAT  American  Editor — none  less  than  he  of  the 
"  Fostersville  Comet " — had  written  to  say  that 
he  was  now  in  England  and  wished  to  meet  me  at  the 
London  office  of  his  paper. 

I  went  to  London  and  to  Fleet  Street,  and  to  an 
alley-way  adjoining  Fleet  Street,  and  here  I  sought 
advice  from  a  certain  shabby  man. 

"  The  Comet  "  ?  said  this  man  :  "  Why,  just 
above  you  here.  Go  in  through  that  little  green 
door  and  go  upstairs  to  the  second  floor  and  you'll 
see  the  board." 

I  did  as  he  directed  me  to  do  and  I  saw  the  board, 
on  a  shadowy  landing.     I  saw  also  a  door,  upon  the 
glass  panel  of  which  there  appeared  in  letters  of 
raised  porcelain,  the  curious  word  : 
EN  U  RI  S. 

I  opened  this  door,  and  found  myself  in  a  small 
and  not  very  clean  apartment,  which  communicated 
with  a  second  and  larger  room  by  means  of  a  torn 
and  shabby  curtain.  The  hole  in  the  curtain 

242 


THE  TALE  OF  A  COMET  243 

disclosed  a  view  of  what  I  supposed  to  be  the 
editorial  office.  It  was  furnished  with  pink  wall- 
paper, a  sofa,  faded  velvet  hangings,  a  piano,  and 
several  bottles  of  beer.  Its  occupants  were  not 
visible,  but  their  voices  proclaimed  them  to  be  of 
mixed  sex. 

The  outer  room  was  more  simply  decorated,  its 
furniture  consisting  merely  of  a  deal  table,  a  piece 
of  looking-glass,  a  roller  towel,  and  a  Gentleman. 
This  Gentleman,  of  middle  height,  and  middle  age, 
was  clean-shaven.  But  he  wore  curly  eyebrows, 
and  long  hair,  of  an  attractive  aluminium  colour. 
He  was  reciting  dramatic  poetry  to  the  looking- 
glass  when  I  entered  the  room,  but  discontinued 
doing  so  on  my  arrival,  and  bowed  to  me  with 
marked  solemnity.  He  also  flourished  an  arm  in  the 
direction  of  a  chair,  saying,  "  Allow  mah  !  " 

I  acknowledged  this  courteous  speech  and  action, 
and  stated  the  object  of  my  call. 

"  You  wish  to  see  Mr.  Montague  ?  "  remarked  the 
Gentleman,  applying  a  portion  of  the  roller- towel 
to  the  looking-glass,  which  bore,  as  it  were,  a  residue 
of  the  poetry  which  he  had  breathed  upon  it. 

' '  I  wish  to  see  the  Editor.     I  hear  he  is  in  London. ' ' 

"  The  Editor  ?  "  repeated  the  Gentleman,  looking 
all  round  him  and  under  the  table.  "  The — ah, 
yes  !  Of  course  you  refer  to  the  Editor  of  the  dear 
old '  Comet.'  That  is  Mr.  Montague.  Allow  mah  !  " 

The  Gentleman,  dexterously  detaching  the  towel 
from  its  bearing,  rushed  forward  and  applied  the 
damp  end  to  the  seat  of  the  chair.  I  thanked  him 
for  this  act  of  hospitality. 


244  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  The  Editor  is  here,  then  ?  "  I  asked 

"  Undoubtedlah  !  "  replied  the  Gentleman. 

"  Will  he  be  able  to  see  me,  do  you  think  ?  "  I 
continued,  proffering  him  a  card. 

"  Decidedlah  !  "    said    the    Gentleman. 

"  How  soon "  I  began,  but  the  Gentleman 

anticipated  this  enquiry.  "  Mr.  Montague,"  he 
proclaimed,  "  will  be  disengaged  directlah — present- 
lah  ;  indeed  almost  immediatelah  !  Be  seated." 

I  accordingly  became  seated,  and  as  my  chair  was 
placed  exactly  opposite  to  the  hole  in  the  curtain 
I  was  able  to  obtain  a  preliminar}'  view  of  Mr. 
Montague — whose  name  seemed  strangely  un- 
familiar to  me.  But  editorial  signatures  are  fre- 
quently of  a  post-impressionist  character,  and  I 
supposed  that  in  the  haste  and  urgency  of  our 
mutual  transactions  I  had  not  correctly  decoded  the 
Editor  of  the  "  Fosters ville  Comet."  Very  likely  I 
had  read  him  upside  down. 

Still,  I  could  have  wished  for  a  better-looking 
Editor  than  Mr.  Montague. 

Mr.  Montague  was  a  gentleman  of  distinctly 
Oriental  features  and  colouring.  He  was  apparelled 
in  a  shiny  black  overcoat,  to  the  cuffs  and  collar  of 
which  adhered  particles  of  fur,  which  evidently  had 
at  one  time  formed  part  of  a  rabbit.  He  was 
wearing  linen  which  had  been  imperfectly  laundered, 
and  he  had  a  cold,  and  spoke  through  his  nose,  and 
required  a  shave.  He  talked  with  animation  and 
gesture,  and  flourished  a  handkerchief  which  evi- 
sently  was  but  the  third  or  fourth  freshest  of  his 
collection. 


THE  TALE  OF  A  COMET  245 

Mr.  Montague  sat  at  a  round  mahogany  table, 
and  was  confronted  by  four  empty  bottles  and  two 
ladies,  who  were  not — who,  that  is  to  say,  had  a  less 
vacant  look  than  the  bottles. 
. .  They  were  brightly  coloured  ladies — all  pale  gold 
and  pink  and  lavender,  with  complexions  like  warm 
tea-cosies.  They  were  musical  ladies.  They  sang. 
Their  song  impressed  itself  upon  my  memory,  and 
I  am  able  to  repeat  its  remarkable  chorus  : 

I've  been  knocking  at  every  door, 

Ringing  at  every  bell, 
Trying  to  find  the  furnished  room 

Where  I  left  my  little  Nell. 
I  just  stepped  out  for  an  hour 

To  see  a  man  on  biz, 
I've  got  a  honeymoon  waiting  for  me, 

But  I  don't  know  where  it  is. 

Mr.  Montague  joined  his  thick  but  fruity  bass  to 
the  concerted  voices  of  the  ladies,  and  the  combined 
effect  was  forceful.  Yet  I  couldn't  help  wondering 
in  what  odd  moments  the  "  Fostersville  Comet  "  got 
itself  produced.  At  the  same  time  I  admired  Mr. 
Montague.  Would  that  all  editors  lived  in  his 
world  of  ease  and  harmony. 

Whilst  I  was  considering  these  matters  the  choir 
practice  came  to  an  end,  and  one  of  the  ladies  rose 
from  her  seat,  uttering,  by  way  of  farewell,  the 
woids  "  Tootle-oo  !  " 

As  this  lady  walked  out  of  the  reception  room  two 
new-comers  came  into  it,  in  whom  I  found  fresh  food 
for  reverie.  The  new-comers  were  masculine,  young, 
of  simple  speech  and  manners.  They  were  dressed 
in  cloth  caps,  "  sweaters,"  reefer  jackets,  and 


246  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

knickerbockers.  They  enquired  of  my  friend,  the 
Gentleman,  who  had  returned  to  his  mirror,  whether 
Mr.  Montague  was  at  home.  The  Gentleman  said, 
"  Undoubtedlah."  They  asked  if  Mr.  Montague 
would  be  shortly  disengaged  ?  The  Gentleman 
said,  "  Certainlah."  And  if  Mr.  Montague  would  see 
them  ?  The  Gentleman  said,  "  Decidedlah." 

"  You  know  'oo  we  are,  I  expect,  guv'nor  ?  " 
one  of  the  young  men  then  hazarded. 

"  Unfortunately — er — no,"  replied  the  Gentleman. 

"  We're  Bender  and  Binder,  the  ackererbats, 
that's  'oo  we  are,"  rejoined  the  spokesman.  "  We've 
both  done  our  bit,  and  we've  both  had  some  gas,  and 
we've  both  got  our  ticket.  Mr.  Montague  wrote  to 
us  about  findiri'  a  Shop." 

"  Ha  !  Preciselah  !  I  recollect,"  exclaimed  the 
Gentleman.  "  Yours  is  a  very  original  entertain- 
ment, I  understand.  Originalatah  is  everything  in 
this  profession." 

"  Well,"  answered  Mr.  Bender  (or  Mr.  Binder), 
"  if  you  want  originality  we're  the  lads  to  give  it 
you.  I  do  the  straight  work  meself — 'Orizontal  Bar 
and  Trapeze — but  my  mate  'ere  is  in  the  komic  line. 
'E  wears  a  pair  of  old  pants,  see  ?  And  'e's  got  a  red 
nose,  see  ?  And  a  bit  of  shirt  front,  what  keeps  on 
pokin'  out,  see  ?  And  while  I'm  doing  the  straight 
business  'e  larks  abaht,  see  ?  Tries  to  climb  up  the 
pole  of  my  bar,  and  so  forth.  As  I  come  round — me 
doing  a  bit  of  straight  work — I  catches  him  a  wollop 
aside  of  'is  'ead  with  my  foot,  and  'e  'oilers  out, 
same  as  if  I'd  'urt  'im,  and  'e  falls  down.  That  allus 
fetches  'em,  that  does.  Oh,  we're  original  all  right." 


THE  TALE  OF  A  COMET  247 

"  Evidential!,"  said  the  Gentleman.  "  How  do 
you  dress  it  ?  " 

"  That,"  said  Mr.  Binder — or  Bender,  as  the  case 
might  be — "  is  one  of  the  most  original  things  about 
our  show,  the  way  we  dresses  it.  I'm  dressed  up  as  a 
middy  in  the  Navy,  with  a  flag  on  me  cap  and  a 
white  stripe  down  me  trousers,  and  my  mate  'ere, 
what  does  the  komic  work,  'e's  dressed  up  like  a 
tramp.  That  Mr.  Montague  calling  ?  " 

It  was  Mr.  Montague  calling.  Whilst  Messrs. 
Bender  and  Binder  had  been  describing  their 
technique,  the  other  lady  had  terminated  her  inter- 
view with  Mr.  Montague. 

Messrs.  Bender  and  Binder  now  explained  their 
professional  methods  to  Mr.  Montague,  who  listened 
patiently,  and  then  said  : 

"  Splendid  !  Excellent !  Most  original.  I  shan't 
trouble  ya  for  a  trial  show.  A  novelty  like  yours 
don't  call  for  no  trial  shows.  It  books  itself,  as  the 
sayin'  goes.  Just  leave  the  usual  deposit  with  my 
clurk  outside — we'll  say  a  fi-pun'  note,  as  you're 
beginners — and  I'll  send  in  yare  names  at  once  to  the 
Coliseum  and  Palladium." 

"  Thank  ya,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Binder.  "  Oh.thanks  I  " 
said  Mr.  Bender. 

I  then  asked  the  Gentleman  to  lend  me  a  match, 
which  he  very  obligingly  did.     I  went  outside,  into 
the  place  of  shadows,  and  looked  again  more  care- 
fully at  Mr.  Montague's  signboard. 
*  *  * 

It  was  as  I'd  begun  to  fear.  Neither  Mr.  Montague 
nor  his  sign,  had  any  connection  with  the  "  Fosters- 


248  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

ville  Comet."     I  had  been  deceived  by  the  shadows 
What  Mr.  Montague's  signboard  really  said  was  this  : 

THE  VAUDEVILLE  COMET, 
Joe  Montague,  Editor. 


THE  COMET  VAUDEVILLE  AGENCY, 
Joe  Montague,  Proprietor. 

While  I  was  examining  this  specimen  of  heraldic 
art  somebody  touched  my  arm.  It  was  the  Gentle- 
man. 

"  Kindlah  step  this  way,  sir,"  he  said.  "  Mr. 
Montague  is  now  at  libertah  !  " 

There  was  obviously  no  avoiding  the  interview,  so 
I  stepped  into  Mr.  Montague's  room,  and  told  him 
the  simple  truth. 

"  I  want  an  engagement  at  £80  a  week  as  an  original 
music-hall  comedian,"  I  said.  "  My  performance  is 
an  entirely  novel  one.  I  wear  an  old  top-hat,  and  a 
dress  suit  which  is  several  sizes  too  large  for  me,  and 
my  face  is  painted  red,  and  my  teeth  are  blacked  out, 
and  I  carry  a  partially  decayed  umbrella,  with 
which  I  assume  to  wipe  my  nose.  And  I  sing  a  song 
about  a  weekly  tenant,  whom  I  call  '  Our  Lodger.' 
I  also  refer  to  Insect  Powder." 

Mr.  Montague  looked  at  me  earnestly,  and  in 
silence,  for  some  moments.  At  last  he  broke  out 
into  a  passionate  shout. 

"  Splendid  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  First  Rate.  Most 
Original.  I'll  put  yare  name  down  on  me  books 
at  once.  Just  leave  the  usual  beginner's  deposit  (five 


THE  TALE  OF  A  COMET  249 

pound)  with  my  man  at  the  door,  and  you  can 
consider  yourself  as  good  as  engaged  for  a  six  months' 
tour  at  the  principal  'ouses." 

Unfortunately,  however,  I  had  forgotten  to  bring 
my  note  case. 


XXXIV 

A  Pair  of  Nut-Crackers 


WHEN  I  walked  in  the  High  Street  of  Blowfield — 
which  is  a  town  in  Arcady — at  luncheon  time  on  a 
recent  Thursday,  the  only  creature  visible  along  the 
whole  expanse  of  that  engaging  thoroughfare  was  an 
old,  old  man.  He  stood  upon  a  doorstep,  beneath 
some  dependent  garlands  of  fruit  (in  cans),  and  the 
sign  of  "  Booker's  Universal  Emporium."  He  wore 
a  willow-patterned  waistcoat. 

"  Booker's,  at  Blowfield."  Who  has  not  heard  of 
this  far-famed  establishment  ?  Its  name  is  a 
household  word  in  this  and  many  other  parishes,  and 
it  is  a  well-known  fact  that  Booker's  sheep-dip,  and 
Booker's  weed-killer,  not  to  mention  Booker's 
tinned  fruits,  is,  and  are,  the  best  and  cheapest 
which  our  civilisation  can  afford. 

I  had  no  sooner  perceived  the  honoured  sign  of 
"  Booker  "  than  I  recollected  my  need  of  a  small 
article  which  "  Booker's  "  could  supply,  and  which 
my  housekeeper  had  earnestly  counselled  me  not  to 

250 


A  PAIR  OF  NUT-CRACKERS  251 

be  deluded  into  buying  elsewhere  than  at  "  Book- 
er's." 

So  I  climbed  the  steps  and  dodged  the  garlands  and 
walked  right  into  Booker's,  the  willow-patterned 
waistcoat  following  me. 

My  venerable  friend,  the  sole  visible  representative 
of  Booker's  garrison,  blinked  at  me  apprehensively 
as  he  stroked  his  waistcoat. 

"  Good  morning,"  I  said.  "  Kindly  show  me 
some  nut-crackers." 

"  Some  what  ? "  demanded  Messrs.  Booker's 
representative,  bestowing  more  blinks  upon  me. 

"  Some  nut-crackers,"  I  repeated. 

"  What  be  they  ?  "  enquired  the  shy  old  gentleman. 

"  Nut-crackers  ?  Why,  ww/-crackers,"  I  explained. 

"  That's  a  funny  set-out,"  observed  the  waistcoat. 
"  Be  they  used,  then,  for  to  crack  up  nuts,  like  ?  " 

"  Just  for  that  purpose,"  I  assented  warmly. 

"  Dear  me  !  Go'  bless  my  soul !  "  exclaimed  the 
excellent  old  fellow.  "  To  save  a  person's  teeth — 
hey  ?  Well  I  never !  What  will  they  bring  out 
next — hey  ?  "  He  blinked  at  me  with  redoubled 
energy. 

I  shook  my  head  in  a  gloomy  manner  expressive  of 
my  inability  to  satisfy  the  willow-pattern's  pious 
wonder.  "  In  the  meantime,"  I  suggested,  "  let 
me  persuade  you  to  exhibit  some  nut-crackers.'* 

"  Nut-crackers— hey  ?  "  repeated  the  patriarch, 
amid  a  shower  of  blinks.  "  Now,  sir,  can  you  tell 
me,  I  wonder,  wheer  sich  manner  o'  tackle  would  be 
housed  ?  In  this  department — hey  ?  " 

I  ventured  to  suppose  that  nut-crackers  would  be 
kept  in  some  place  not  inhabited  by  sheep-dip. 


252  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  You  see,  sir,"  explained  this  honourable  member 
of  Booker's  executive,  "  I  be  here  merely  tempor'y  : 
mindin'  shop,  as  the  sayun  goo,  while  all  the  rest  on 
'em  be  gone  to  dinner.  I  be  a  packer,  really,  if  you 
was  to  ask  my  proper  qualification." 

I  was  conscious  of  no  curiosity  concerning  the 
patriarch's  qualifications.  All  I  wanted  was  a  pair 
of  inexpensive  nut-crackers.  I  reminded  him  of  that 
fact. 

"  Very  well,"  responded  the  old  gentleman,  with 
perfect  good  humour  and  five-and-twenty  blinks. 
"  Let  us  goo  seek  them — hey  ?  " 

He  conducted  me,  with  these  words,  into  another 
and  even  more  lofty  department,  filled  to  the  lid  with 
lace  curtains,  ladies'  items,  muslins,  mattresses,  and 
mail-carts.  "This,"  he  announced,  "is  the  House- 
hold, Haberdashery,  and — General.  Will  they  be 
yere,  sir  ?  " 

"  Decidedly  not,"  I  said. 

We  retired  into  the  Artistic — and  General :    an 
imposing  treasury  of  alarm  clocks,  all-wire  bed- 
springs,   bamboo  tables,  and  overmantels — carved 
and  executed  after  the  attractive  manner  of  Messrs 
Salmon  &  Gluckstein. 

"  Not  here,"  I  gasped. 

The  Grand  Old  Blinker,  with  a  sudden  quickening 
of  interest,  then  led  me  into  a  mixed  assembly  of 
hams,  dried  onions,  Canadian  butter,  Brazil  nuts, 
biscuits,  and — bottled  beer.  "  What  about  this 
place  ?  "  he  wondered,  hopefully. 

"  What  is  this  place  ?  "  I  answered. 

"  This,"  he  said,  with  a  blink  of  great  feeling  and 


A  PAIR  OF  NUT-CRACKERS  253 

unmistakable  signs  of  the  water-brash, "  is  the — hey — 
the — hey — Horf  Licence — and  General." 

I  tore  him  away  from  it  with  sympathetic  reluc- 
tance. It  is  bootless  to  repeat  the  further  details 
of  our  lengthy  search  for  nut-crackers.  Suffice  it  to 
say  that  at  last  we  found  them. 

We  found  them  in  the  sanctuary  of  the  G.O.B.'s 
last  hopes  :  in  his  Land  of  Promise — the  Assorted — 
and  General.  Here,  amid  shaving  glasses,  more 
alarm  clocks,  more  onions,  air-guns,  soothing  syrup, 
and  glue,  they  reposed,  in  a  glass  cabinet  upon  the 
peak  or  apex  of  a  pyramid  of  dog-soap. 

Perhaps  you  suppose  that  my  adventures  at 
Booker's  now  terminate  ?  If  you  suppose  a  thing 
like  that  it  is  evident  that  you  have  never  shopped 
in  Arcady. 

"  Dear  me  !  Go'  bless  my  soul !  "  exclaimed  the 
G.O.B.,  his  willow-pattern  wobbling  with  emotion, 
when  I  called  his  attention  to  the  cabinet.  "  So 
they  be  nut-crackers  !  They've  took  the  rust  a  bit 
powerful,  ain't  they  ?  ' 

"  They  have,"  I  assented.  "  Hardly  fit  for 
civilised  employment,  but — still,  what  is  the  price  of 
them  ?  Fonrpence  ?  " 

"  Not  more  than  fourpence,  surely  !  "  replied  the 
trusted  salesman. 

"  Well,  then,"  I  responded,  '"  let  us  say  three- 
pence. Here  you  are." 

The  G.O.B.  drew  back,  blinking  rapidly.  "  1 
durs'nt  sell  they  things  without  we  know  the  price 
for  sartin,"  he  exclaimed  "  You  see,"  he  added, 
leaning  confidentially  across  the  dog-soap  and 


254  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

favouring  me  with  a  jocose  variety  of  blink,  "there's 
too  many  eyes  about  the  place.  Booker's  is  a  very 
strictly  managed  consarn." 

"  Can't  you  find  out  the  price  ?  "  I  said. 

"  They  be  all  at  dinner,"  replied  the  G.O.B. 

"  Don't  you  keep  a  price  list  ?  "  I  suggested. 

"  We  got  a  bewk,"  replied  the  G.O.B.  "  Shall  1 
goo  and  fetch  it  ?  " 

Upon  my  assenting  to  this  proposition,  the  G.O.B. 
departed,  and  after  much  travail  in  a  distant  part 
of  Booker's  territory,  he  returned  with  two  stout 
volumes.  One,  which  was  bound  in  red,  bore  the 
inscription,  "  B.  K.  &  K.,  Coventry  "  ;  the  other, 
beautifully  upholstered  in  purple,  supported  the 
armorial  bearing  and  insignia  of  "  T.  &  Co., 
Sheffield." 

I  have  looked  at  books  like  these  before,  and  I 
knew  the  rules.  "  There  is  20  per  cent,  to  come  off 
these  prices,  as  listed,"  I  explained  to  the  G.O.B. 

"  Well,  I  never  !  Be  there,  indeed  !  Go'  bless  my 
soul !  "  replied  the  stout  financier. 

He  wetted  both  thumbs  and  began  to  turn  over 
the  pages  of  "  B.K.  &  K."  "  They  got  it  printed 
under  '  Nuts,'  sir,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  but  'tis  on'y 
be  the  gross.  Look  there  !  " 

Looking  there,  I  learned  that  nuts,  with  washers, 
assorted,  per  gross,  were  offered  at  the  revolutionary 
price  of  I2s.  3d.  I  exhorted  my  guide  and  comforter 
to  try  again. 

He  accordingly  side-tracked  "  B.  K.  &  K.," 
and  consulted  their  rivals  with  surprisingly  quick 
results. 


A  PAIR  OF  NUT-CRACKERS  255 

"  Here  we  be  !"  he  called  triumphantly,  "  here  we 
be  for  sartin — nut-cracks,  in  cases,  three-pund-ten 
and  fower  guineas.  Which  there  is  two  plain  pictures 
of  the  very  object !  " 

There  they  were,  quite  definitely — the  "  nut- 
cracks,"  so  called  and  so  spelled,  in  dozens,  reclining 
upon  beds  of  plush  in  cases  of  leather.  Some  were 
ebon-handled  ;  some  had  handles  wrought  of  ivory  ; 
some  were  "  finished  in  fine  Sheffield  plate."  I 
looked  upon  them  longingly.  But 

But  I  did  not  want  a  dozen  nut-cracks.  I  wanted 
just  a  single  pair. 

"  Naarthun  ain't  printed  yere  about  no  single 
cracks,"  protested  the  G.O.B. 

"  What  is  to  be  done,  then  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  Theer  be'ant  naarthun  to  be  done — only  wait," 
rejoined  the  G.O.B.  "  They  be  all  at  dinner." 

Wait !  And  why  not  ?  I  had  already  waited,  as 
my  watch  informed  me,  for  at  least  three-quarters 
of  an  hour.  A  further  sojourn  in  that  place  of 
solitude  and  calm  could  only  bring  happiness  to  a 
man  of  philosophic  temperament.  Casting  away 
all  worldly  thoughts,  all  selfish  appetite  for  air,  wine 
and  food,  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  simple  pleasures 
of  the  moment  and  exercised,  in  the  interests  of 
the  G.O.B.,  my  choicest  gifts  of  raillery  and  harm- 
less mirth. 

Under  this  treatment  the  G.O.B.  expanded  wonder- 
fully. He  revived  for  my  delectation  many  of  the 
choicest  mots  of  the  packing  shed,  and  his  honest 
laughter  rang  among  the  rafters,  evaporated  among 
the  hip-baths,  and  was  echoed  by  the  onions. 
Suddenly,  however,  a  deadly  calm  ensued. 


256  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

The  G.O.B.,  pausing  at  the  crucial  stage  of  an 
anecdote  concerning  linseed,  assumed  an  expression 
of  awful  gravity,  and,  walking  backwards,  made  an 
obeisance  before  the  figiire  of  a  new-comer — a  young 
man,  lanky,  sombre,  and  solemn,  dressed  in  sombre, 
solemn  clothes. 

"  Yere  be  the  gentleman  as  belongs  yere,"  pro- 
claimed the  G.O.B.,  with  a  break  in  his  blink,  as  he 
vanished  from  sight. 

The  gentleman,  looking  down  upon  me  with  a 
sombre  eye,  demanded  to  know  "  what  article  he 
could  have  the  hodour  of  subbitting." 

I  answered,  simply,  "  Nut-crackers," 

The  sombre  young  gentleman,  directing  me,  with 
a  flourish  to  the  glass-topped  case,  said  :  "  Nidepeds- 
ha'peddy !  " 

"  Does  that  include  the  rust  ?  "  I  ventured  to 
enquire. 

"  Nidepeds-ha'peddy  !  "  repeated  the  young  gen- 
tleman. 

"  Haven't  you  got  a  clean  pair  ?  "  I  persisted. 

"  These,"  said  the  young  gentleman  stiffly,  "  are 
the  odly  style  id  dut-cracks  which  we  stock." 

"Won't  you,"  I  pleaded,  "knock  off  the  ha'- 
penny ?  " 

"  Sir "  replied  the  young  gentleman,  "  if  you 
require  a  cheap  lide  in  dut-cracks,  you  will  have  to 
go  elsewhere.  Booker's  Sell  Only  The  Best." 


XXXV 

A  Picture 


WE  went  out  walking  yesterday,  and,  when  we  got 
to  the  top  of  a  very  long  hill,  the  dogs  were  making 
a  show  of  tongue.  One  of  them  opened  a  cottage 
gate  of  his  own  initiative,  evidently  with  a  view  to 
prospecting  for  water. 

An  elderly  woman,  wearing  a  faded  purple  sun- 
bonnet,  came  trotting  down  the  red-brick  path  to  see 
what  troop  of  cavalry  had  fallen  foul  of  her  gate-post. 
She  blended  well  with  the  aged  quince  tree  at  her 
gate,  and  with  the  monkshood,  larkspur,  and  cam- 
panula which  bordered  the  path.  Like  her,  these 
living  things  were  rooted  deeply  in  that  soil.  The 
little  gabled  house  behind  her  had  been  coloured 
bronze  and  golden  by  experience,  and  was  "  a  sight 
with  wistaria,"  or  (as  this  old  lady  happened  to  call 
it)  the  "  whisper  blooms." 

The  old  lady  came  up  to  me  at  her  gate  and 
extended  a  hand — an  action  which  surprised  me, 
since  friendship  does  not  often  offer  itself  in  this 
land  without  extensive  courtship. 
R  257 


258  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  So  you  be  come,"  said  the  old  lady.  From  which 
I  saw  that  she  was  not  really  a  friend,  though  friendly. 

"  'Ave  ye  brought  moi  picture,  then  ?  "  continued 
the  old  lady. 

I  looked  at  her  blankly.  She  was  without  doubt 
a  wholly  serious  old  lady,  and  her  face,  though  worn, 
looked  not  the  least  bit  stupid. 

"If,"  I  said,  "  you  will  excuse  me  for  mentioning 
it,  we  are  perfect  strangers  to  each  other.  I  have 
come  to  beg  a  bowl  of  water  for  my  dogs." 

"  But  what  about  the  picture  ?  "  enquired  the  old 
lady. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  any  picture." 

"  But  you  be  surely  the  same  gentleman  as  come 
here  makin'  pictures  when  the  daffodils  was  out  ?  " 

I  refused  to  admit  this. 

"  Tis  a  very  strange  thing,  then,"  exclaimed  the 
old  lady.  "  You  looks  exarkly  similar,  all  bar  the 
dogs.  You  got  just  the  same  politeness  and  the  same 
ole  squashy  'at." 

I  repeated  my  denials. 

"  And  you  talk  so  similar,"  said  the  old  lady. 
"  Got  the  same  sort  of  stuttering  speech.  Don't  you 
remember  the  quince  bloom,  what  you  copied  down  ? 
Don't  you  remember  the  jelly  ?  That  weer  the 
first  time  ever  you  tasted  quince  jelly,  I  mind  you 
said.  You  did  so  enjoy  the  pancakes  to  your  tea. 
'  These  be  pancakes,'  you  said." 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Well,  'tis  a  strange  thing,"  repeated  the  old 
lady.  "  Tis  so  seldom  as  ever  I  sees  a  novel  face, 


A  PICTURE  259 

I  be  bound  to  mind  it  when  I  do.     You  took  it  away 
to  frame  it." 

"  Oh,"  I  responded  with  a  rustic  wit :  "  Did  I 
think  my  face  worth  framing  ?  " 

"  I  be  talkin'  of  the  picture,  sir,"  responded  the 
old  lady,  with  reproachful  gravity.  "  It  was  to  be  a 
seven-and-sixpenny  frame,  and  you  took  it  away 
with  the  money." 

"  Whose  money  ?  "  I  demanded,  sharply. 

"  Why,  me  own,  to  be  sure,"  responded  the  old 
lady  ;  "  whose  else  should  it  be  ?  And  you  was  so 
good.  You  would  not  take  so  much  as  a  shillin' 
for  the  picture  what  you  made ;  on'y  the  tea ; 
and  I'm  sure  you  was  welcome  to  that.  How  you 
did  relish  they  pancakes,  to  be  sure.  '  These  be 
pancakes/  you  said. 

"  I  mind  it  all  so  well.  I've  wondered  to  myself  a' 
many  times  when  you'd  be  back  agin.  And  here 
you  be.  'Ave  ye  forgot  moi  picture,  then  ?  " 

I  said  :  "  You  have  mistaken  me  for  somebody 
else.  I  never  painted  any  picture  here.  I  have  never 
seen  this  house  before,  nor  you,  nor  the  road." 

"  Be  you  sure  ?  "  said  the  old  lady. 

"  Certain,  positive-sure,"  I  replied. 

"  Poor  lad,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  Then  he'll  have 
come  to  grief,  same  as  I  have  often  thought.  He'll 
be  ill  or  broke  his  leg.  You  are  sure  'twas  never 
you  ?  " 

I  repeated  my  denials. 

"  Well,  that  makes  me  sorry,"  said  the  old  lady. 
"  I  do  so  often  think  upon  that  pleasant  young  faller 
and  wish  he  be  come  to  no  'arm.  But  now  'tis  getting 


260  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

long  since  he  was  here,  and  I  be  pret'  nigh  'fraid  for 
'im.  He  took  the  picture  off  with  'im  so  gay  and 
merry.  It  was  to  be  a  wonderful  pretty  frame,  from 
all  accounts.  Poor  lad !  I  do  be  'fraid  he's  found 
some  harm.  Poor  lad  !  " 


XXXVI 

Cony  Pit  Corner 


As  our  pony-waggon  staggered  up  the  long  hill, 
July  went  mad.  I  have  known  July  in  many  of  her 
justly  celebrated  moods.  I  have  known  the  dull 
mood,  the  sultry  mood,  the  sunny  mood,  the  tearful 
mood,  and  the  undecided,  petulant,  or  changeful 
mood.  But  I  have  never  before  seen  the  moody 
month  turn  rowdy  and  behave  like  March. 

But  she  let  it  rip  on  this  occasion,  all  right.  And 
she  did  it  best — or  worst — when  the  old  pony  was 
floundering  up  the  one-in-eight  of  God-ha'-Mercy 
Hill.  She  threw  a  regular  fit  at  him  then,  which 
blew  the  waggon  about  the  road  as  if  it  had  been  a 
match-box.  She  threw  blinding,  cutting  rains  and 
deafening  hailstones — stones  of  that  fine  marrowfat- 
pea  size  which  are  proverbially  compared  with 
pigeons'  eggs.  She  threw  down  swirling  volumes 
of  twigs  and  green  leaves,  and,  finally,  she  tore  great 
branches  from  oak  trees  and  banged  them  down 
about  the  poor  old  horse's  ears.  It  was  an  attack 

261 


262  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

of  acute  mania  to  which  July  had  unexpectedly  and 
absolutely  abandoned  herself,  and  it  lasted  for  two 
hours. 

When  this  seizure  was  at  the  height  of  its  power, 
when  our  poor  beast  was  butting  ineffectively  at  the 
sharpest  rise  of  God-ha'-Mercy,  and  the  trunks  were 
falling  about  him,  I  happened  to  look  round — a 
movement  which  I  executed  with  extreme  difficulty — 
in  order  to  see  if  any  part  of  the  waggon  had  been 
blown  away  or  if  any  girls  had  been  blown  out  of  it. 
The  waggon  was  intact  and  still  contained  its  proper 
complement  of  giggles.  But  some  strange  object  had 
become  attached  to  the  waggon,  something  which 
July  had  tossed  upon  the  road. 

On  examining  this  accretion  more  closely — and 
that  was  anything  but  very  closely,  what  with  wind 
up  one's  trousers  and  hail  in  one's  eye  and  oak  trees 
in  one's  hair — I  saw  it  was  in  the  nature  or  after  the 
fashion  of  a  human  being.  A  small,  black  human 
being,  blown  up  balloon-shape,  with  a  circumference 
of  not  less  than  twelve  feet.  She — for  it  had  the 
uncomplaining  face  of  the  female  sex— was  des- 
perately mixed  up  with  other  things  :  an  umbrella, 
a  bonnet,  lettuces,  a  black  bag,  a  green  bag,  a  brown- 
paper  parcel,  and  a  morning  newspaper.  She  was 
being  blown  about.  She  bounced.  She  rebounded. 
She  rotated.  She  revolved.  Theoretically,  she 
was  holding  on  to  the  back  part  of  the  waggon, 
where  there  is  a  rack  for  carrying  hay  and  oats,  and 
odds  and  ends.  But,  in  practice,  July  did  not 
often  let  her  do  so,  but  kept  her  bowling  and  blowing 
and  grunting  and  groaning  all  over  the  road. 


CONY  PIT  CORNER  263 

Seeing  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  common 
decency  ;  seeing  also  that  there  is  always  room  in 
my  waggon  for  another  girl ;  and  seeing,  finally, 
that  I  had  had  enough  of  July  and  wanted  to  spite 
her,  I  got  the  waggon  to  one  of  the  few  flat  places 
which  exist  on  the  bosom  of  God-ha' Mercy  Hill, and 
caused  my  stout  horse  to  stand  at  ease.  I  then 
invited  the  little  black  balloon  to  climb  into  the 
omnibus  and  have  a  ride,  uttering  a  cry  familiar 
to  my  waggoning  acquaintances :  a  cry  borrowed 
from  the  annals  of  the  sea. 

"  Wa-a-y  ho,  me  hearties  !  Show  a  leg,  show  a 
leg,  or  a  purser's  stocking  !  " 

The  front  door  of  the  waggon  was  then  opened, 
and  two  perfectly  collected  young  women  presented 
themselves,  with  dry  faces  and  tidy  hair,  and  they 
said,  in  one  calm  voice  :  "Oh,  bother  !  What's  the 
matter  now  ?  " 

"  Boat  alongside  !  "  I  bellowed  through  the  gale. 
"  Passenger  coming  aboard.  Stand  by  to  throw  a 
line  !  " 

The  ladies  stepped  on  to  the  little  foredeck  of  the 
waggon  and  looked  down  at  the  near-side  front 
wheel,  and  there  they  saw  the  little  old  black  thing, 
at  which,  I  blush  to  say,  they  uttered  hilarious 
noises,  which,  I  rejoice  to  say,  got  mixed  up  with 
the  wind. 

That  little  wet  balloon  took  some  getting  aboard, 
what  with  the  strength  of  the  wind,  the  height  of 
the  waggon,  and  the  shortness  of  her  little  black 
legs.  Not  to  mention  a  fine  sense  of  courtesy  which 
impelled  her  to  break  her  upward  journey  at  fre- 


264  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

quent  stages  in  order  to  utter  thanks  and  perform 
obeisance.  But  at  last,  the  ladies  pulling  and  I 
pushing,  we  got  her  aboard  the  waggon,  at  the  far 
end  of  which  she  found  a  little  stool,  sat  down  on  it, 
and  curtsied  to  right  and  left. 

"  If  you  be  gooun  straight  ahead,"  she  then  said, 
"  you'll  be  gooun  to  Cony  Pit  Corner,  where  the  old 
oak  tree  standeth.  Please  be  so  good,  sir,  and  set 
me  down  there.  That's  where  I  be  gooun  :  to  the 
old  oak  tree  at  Cony  Pit  Corner.  I  are  gone  theer 
every  second  Wednesday  for  four  and  forty  year." 

Having  said  this,  the  little  black,  wet  person  said 
no  more  ;  but  she  gave  us  a  wet  paper,  containing 
the  morning's  news  in  wet,  black,  blotchy  pictures, 
with  questions  underneath  them. 

Then  I  stepped  out  into  July  again  and  wondered 
about  the  old  oak  tree  at  Cony  Pit  Corner.  I  wondered 
why  anybody  should  want  to  go  to  an  old  oak  tree, 
at  Cony  Pit  Corner,  once  every  fortnight  for  forty- 
four  years.  Forty-four  years  is  such  a  long  time. 
Forty-four  years  ago  there  were  no  aeroplanes  and 
no  streptococci.  There  was  no  Mr.  Pemberton 
Billing.  Just  think  how  things  have  changed  in 
forty-four  years.  But  during  all  that  time  the  old 
wet  lady  has  not  changed,  and  the  old  oak  tree  has 
not  changed.  They  have  been  meeting  every 
fortnight. 

After  travelling  boisterously  for  three  miles,  we 
came  to  the  oak  tree,  and  then  the  old  lady  permitted 
herself  to  be  lowered  out  of  the  van,  and  toddled  to 
her  tree  and  stood  beneath  its  dripping  branches, 
while  July  made  balloons  of  her. 


CONY  PIT  CORNER  265 

There  she  stood,  all  blown  about,  all  wet ;  un- 
complaining, imperturbable,  polite,  bobbing  at 
us  gravely  till  we  drove  away.  In  forty-four  years' 
time  I  hope  to  be  that  way  again,  and  I  shall  look 
out  for  her. 


XXXVII 


Tibsey 


MY  introduction  to  Tibsey  arose  out  of  a  sort  of 
accident. 

The  accident  originated  on  the  Marine  Parade, 
the  Esplanade,  or,  as  it  might  be,  the  Promenade 
of  Somewhere-on-Sea. 

In  this  place  I  happened  to  be  occupied  with 
what  is  called  the  pastime  of  motoring.  I  happened 
to  be  driving  a  vehicle  (now  for  sale),  in  which  is 
embodied  many  new  and  original  ideas.  One  of 
these  consisted  in  a  powerful  hub-brake,  so  con- 
structed as  to  apply  itself  automatically,  thus 
locking  your  back  wheels  without  warning,  and 
pitching  you  over  the  wind-screen.  It  struck  me, 
then  and  there,  that  I  am  not  the  right  sort  of  person 
to  mix  himself  up  with  new  and  progressive  ideas  in 
motoring.  I  will  stick,  for  the  future,  to  old- 
fashioned,  uneventful,  ordinary  buzz-waggons,  and 
attend  to  my  own  brake  effects  in  the  ordinary 
humdrum,  old-fashioned  way. 

266 


TIBSEY  267 

Well,  the  genius  who  had  devised  this  automatic 
scheme  for  slamming  on  the  brake  had  omitted  to 
incorporate  any  device,  automatic  or  otherwise, 
for  slamming  it  off  again.  Two  taxi-drivers  couldn't 
do  it,  nor  could  a  soldier  with  a  mallet.  So  we  were 
slowly  and  ignominiously  towed  unto  a  garage,  our 
back  wheels,  which  were  so  newly  and  originally 
locked,  digging  appreciable  ruts  in  the  newly  tarred 
surface  of  the  Par-,  the  Promen-,  or,  as  it  might  be, 
the  Esplan-ADE. 

They  made  me  very  welcome  at  the  garage.  I 
am  known  at  the  garage.  I  enjoy  at  this  garage  the 
reputation,  which  I  cannot  disclaim  having  earned, 
of  being  a  valued  customer.  They  gave  me  a  chair, 
a  newspaper,  and  a  cigar.  I  took  them  all.  They 
gave  me  a  mechanic  and  a  hammer.  For  two  hours 
or  so  I  sat  on  my  chair  and  listened  with  pleasure 
to  the  mechanic  while  he  struck  and  cursed  that 
brake-hub. 

There  then  entered  unto  me  one  of  the  proprietors 
of  the  garage — the  commercial,  book-keeping,  un- 
mechanical  proprietor,  such  as  all  garages  always 
keep  to  help  their  customers  out  of  mechanical 
difficulties.  He  said  how  extremely  unfortunate 
it  was  that  the  mechanical  partner  should  happen 
to  be  out.  He  explained  that  the  mechanical 
partner  was  collecting  accounts.  He  remarked  that 
William  seemed  to  be  having  no  luck  with  the 
brake,  and  hinted  at  a  conviction  that,  in  the  absence 
of  a  mechanical  partner  to  advise  him,  William  would 
continue  to  have  no  luck.  He  then  mentioned,  in 
a  gossipy  sort  of  way,  that  William  happened  to  be 


268  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

the  only  mechanic  then  in  stock,  and  then  he  added — 
slowly,  significantly — that  an  urgent  S.O.S.  call  had 
reached  the  garage  from  the  Portsmouth  Road,  that 
some  man  would  have  to  be  sent,  and  that  the  only 
man  he  had  to  send  was  William. 

I  then  understood  what  it  was  that  the  commercial, 
unmechanical,  book-keeping  partner  really  wished 
to  suggest.  I  dealt  with  the  suggestion. 

"  You  don't  take  William  off  my  hub,  Mr.  Peak," 
I  said,  "  not  even  to  carry  a  spare  belt-fastener  to 
a  Rolls-Royce  :  not  even  to  dig  a  Baby-Peugeot  out 
of  a  rabbit-hole.  William  has  got  to  go  on  hitting 
that  brake  until  it  lets  go." 

Mr.  Peak  looked  thoughtful.  "  It  isn't  a  digging- 
out,"  he  muttered  gravely,  "  it's  merely  to  take  out 
a  gaiter  to  a  burst  tyre.  But  if  I  don't  send  William 
I  cannot  send  at  all  ....  unless  .  .  .  ." 

"  Unless  what  ?  " 

"  Unless  it  would  amuse  you  to  take  some  bus 
of  ours — say  the  little  green  one — and  run  out  with 
the  gaiter.  It  might  amuse  you,  I  thought.  It 
would  oblige  me.  And  then,  of  course,  William  could 
get  on  \viihyour  little  job." 

"  Give  William  two  more  hammers,"  I  replied. 
"  I  will  take  out  your  little  green  bus.  I  will  convey 

your  gaiter  to  the  Portsmouth  Road." 

*  *  *  * 

Thus  it  was  that  I  experienced  the  inexpressible 
pleasure  of  meeting  Tibsey. 

I  found  Tibsey  soon  :  I  found  him  on  the  Ports- 
mouth road,  awaiting  gaiters.  He  belonged  to 
a  minute,  saffron-coloured  motor  car,  and  to  a  very 


TIBSEY  269 

impatient,  scornful  lady,  and  a  black,  barky  Pome- 
ranian lap-dog.  He  also,  in  a  manner,  cohered  with 
three  hat-boxes,  a  portmanteau,  and  several  dozen 
golf-clubs,  which,  by  some  act  of  wizardry,  had  been 
affixed  to  outstanding  parts  of  the  pocket  motor-car. 

I  drew  up  beside  the  little  car  and  smiled  benignly 
at  them.  The  scornful  lady  greeted  me  : 

"  Are  you  the  man  from  the  garage  ? "  she 
demanded.  "  Why  have  you  been  so  long  ?  Have 
you  brought  a  gaiter  ?  " 

"  From  the  garage,  madame,"  I  replied,  touching 
my  cap,  "  with  seven  gaiters." 

"  Seven  ?     I  only  ordered  one." 

"  We  have  seven  sizes,  madame,"  I  replied. 
"  Your  messenger  was  unable  to  tell  us  which  size 
would  be  required." 

"  Tibsey,"  exclaimed  the  lady,  brusquely,  "  why 
didn't  you  tell  the  boy  what  size  we  wanted  ?  " 

Tibsey  turned  round.  He  was  a  human  being, 
of  the  male  gender,  six  feet  two  inches  high,  in 
brown  boots,  pressed  trousers  and  perfectly  fitting 
otherwises.  He  wore  a  brown  Tyrol  hat,  with  a 
wing  portion  of  partridge  attached  to  its  ribbon.  He 
wore  a  fixed  stare  and  a  grave,  aloof  expression.  He 
also  wore  the  baby  brother  of  a  moustache  :  a  terse 
little  thing,  strictly  confined  to  the  sub-nasal  area 
of  his  upper  lip. 

Holding  his  head  very  high  and  his  back  very 
straight,  Tibsey  blinked  at  the  impatient,  scornful 
lady,  who  repeated  her  question  : 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  the  boy  what  size  they  were 
to  bring  ?  " 


270  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  I  didn't  know  the  size,"  said  Tibsey. 

"  You  don't  know  anything,  Tibsey,"  said  the 
scornful  lady.  Tibsey  continued  to  blink,  twitching 
his  moustache  a  little  as  he  did  so. 

"  Now  watch  this  man,  Tibsey,"  continued  his 
fair  companion.  "  See  how  he  puts  on  this  gaiter 
and  then,  perhaps,  you'll  be  able  to  be  of  some  use, 
sometimes.  Mind  the  dog."  Tibsey,  in  the  act  of 
twitching  his  moustache  at  her,  arrested  that  action 
and  rapidly  moved  his  feet  about.  The  dog  barked 
at  his  feet. 

Of  course,  I  had  not  arranged  with  Mr.  Peak  to 
put  on  any  gaiters.  I  had  merely  contracted  to 
deliver  a  gaiter.  But  Tibsey's  nervous  smile  decided 
me  to  fit  the  gaiter. 

I  selected  a  gaiter  of  the  proper  size,  and  then  I 
looked  for  the  damaged  tyre.  I  found  it. 

"  Is  it  a  big  burst,"  asked  the  lady. 

"  Is  which  a  big  burst  ?  "  I  rejoined. 

"  Is  there  more  than  one  ?  " 

"  There  are  fifteen  "  I  replied.  "  But  which  is 
the  one  you  call  IT  ?  IT  ought  to  have  the  gaiter." 

"  There  was  only  one  burst  when  we  left  Ports- 
mouth," asserted  the  lady. 

"  Have  you  travelled  from  Portsmouth  on  this 
flat  tyre  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  lady.     "  Does  it  matter  ?  " 

I  suggested  that  it  mattered  to  the  extent  of 
about  three  guineas. 

"  But  Tibsey  said  it  wouldn't  matter !  "  ex- 
claimed the  lady. 

"  Tibsey  :  why  did  you  say  it  wouldn't  matter  ?  " 


TIBSEY  271 

Tibsey  twitched  his  moustache  at  us  and  blinked 
He  looked  first  to  one  side  of  his  nose,  then  to  the 
other.  Then,  blowing  hard,  he  said  : 

"  I,  ah,  didn't  think  it  would  mattah  !  " 

"But  why  didn't  you  think  it  would  matter? 
What  right  had  you  to  think  such  a  thing  ?  " 

Tibsey  blinked  and  twitched  again.  "  I  thought  it 
wouldn't  mattah,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  because  I, 
ah,  somehow  didn't  think  it  would  mattah."  He 
then  trod  on  the  dog. 

Having  been  well  and  truly  bitten  and  thoroughly 
scolded,  he  was  then  ordered  to  stand  by  my  side 
and  watch  me  execute  the  feat  of  affixing  one  gaiter 
to  fifteen  bursts.  He  watched  me  as  directed, 
blinking  and  twitching  steadfastly. 

"  Now,"  said  the  lady,  when  I  had  finished,  and 
was  hastening  to  my  car  to  get  away  before  the  tube 
blew  through,  "  Now  Tibsey,  you  have  seen  all 
about  this  gaiter  business.  Do  you  think  you  can 
manage  the  next  one  yourself  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedlah  !  "  said  Tibsey. 

"  Then  pay  the  man,"  rejoined  the  lady,  seating 
herself  at  the  driving  wheel  of  the  car.  And  give 
me  the  dog  and  start  the  engine  and  then  jump  in." 

Tibsey  gave  me  a  shilling  for  myself,  for  which  I 
thanked  him.  He  seemed  surprised  at  the  warmth 
of  my  thanks,  not  knowing  that  I  had  to  thank  him 
for  rather  more  than  a  shilling.  Then,  coming 
close  to  me  and  blinking  hurriedly  and  whispering, 
Tibsey  begged  a  little  favour  : 

"  Be  a  friend,"  he  said,  "  be  a  friend,  old  lad,  and 
wind  that  beastly  winch  for  me." 


272  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

So  I  started  up  the  engine  for  him.  Then  I 
jumped  into  my  own  car,  and  gave  them  a  brilliant 
demonstration  of  the  art  of  "  getting  away."  But 
I  did  it  only  just  in  time.  A  second  later  there  was  a 
loud  report.  Tibsey  was  in  trouble  again. 

In  climbing  into  their  car,  the  unfortunate  gentle- 
man must  have  brushed  against  the  gaitered  tyre. 


XXXVIII 
Granfer  Haffenden's  Sunday 


GRANFER  HAFFENDEN  is  what  they  call  a  "  help  " 
at  Hollow  Place  Farm,  where  they  grow  marsh 
marigolds  and  mosquitoes. 

It  is  Granfer  Haffenden's  function  to  mind  the 
cows  and  mend  the  gates  and  dam  the  marshes  and 
keep  the  hedges  and  clean  the  ditches  and  thatch 
the  ricks  and  cut  the  chaff  and  bank  the  roots  and 
drive  the  plough  and  wield  the  scythe  and  clean  the 
milk  pails  and  churn  the  butter,  and  to  take  it 
into  market  and  sell  same  and  keep  account  of  same, 
even  unto  the  odd  farthing,  and  it  is  likewise  Mr. 
Haffenden's  duty  to  hew  wood  and  draw  water  for 
Mrs.  Pink,  his  master's  wife,  and  to  escort  that  lady 
to  and  from  Blowfield  in  the  pony  chaise,  and  to  take 
care  of  her  afflicted  mother  and  her  sister's  baby 
while  she  and  her  sister  walk  up  Blowfield  High 
Street  to  look  at  lace  curtains.  It  is  a  further 
obligation  of  the  venerable  Haffenden  to  act  as 
veterinary  and  obstetric  adviser  to  the  entire  animal 
population  of  Hollow  Place  Farm,  and  to  attend 
s  273 


274  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

the  Plough  Inn  at  closing  time  on  Saturdays  in  the 
ophthalmic  interests  of  Mr.  Pink,  his  master. 

All  these  varied  tasks  are  dutifully  performed  by 
Mr.  Haffenden,  who  takes  a  pride  and  pleasure  in  his 
work,  particularly  in  damming  the  marshes. 

"  Taint  s'if  the  pasture  be  bad  in  itself,"  Mr. 
Haffenden  explained  to  me  one  morning,  in  the  dread- 
fully uncongenial  month  of  March,  when  he  had 
been  damming  the  marshes  with  hand  and  tongue 
since  daybreak.  "  'Taint  s'if  the  pasture  be  bad  in 
itself.  That's  good  pasture  in  itself ;  so  long  as  it 
be  above  water.  On'y  that  be  such  wonderful  porous 
land.  That  let  in  the  wet  so,  winter  times.  But 
that's  good  pasture,  whenever  'tis  up  above  the 
water  level.  The  cattle  thrive  on  it  wonderful,  in 
August  and  September.  You  get  the  benefit  of  it 
then  ;  partikerly  in  a  dry  season,  same  as  we  'ad 
las'  year.  Same  time,  I  grant  you,  that  be  'ard  on 
the  cattle  times  such  as  this,  when  they  got  to 
paddle  in  it,  as  you  might  say.  'Taint  as  if  there  was 
any  nourishment  in  this  a-here  duckweed ;  not  to 
say  nourishment." 

I  will  say  this  for  Granfer  Haffenden,  that  he 
dams  the  marshes  with  all  his  heart  and  soul.  I 
believes  he  loves  the  work.  He  certainly  sticks 
to  it.  The  only  times  when  he  leaves  it  alone  are 
times  when  he  is  minding  the  cows  or  mending  the 
gates  or  keeping  the  hedges  or  cleaning  the  ditches 
or  thatching  the  ricks  or  cutting  the  chaff  or  banking 
the  roots  or  driving  the  plough  or  wielding  the 
scythe  or  cleaning  the  milk-pails  or  churning  the 
butter  or  going  to  market  or  adding  up  farthings  or 


GRANFER  HAFFENDEN'S  SUNDAY    275 

hewing  wood  or  drawing  water  or  driving  his  mistress 
to  Blowfield  or  nursing  his  mistress's  mother  or 
practising  the  arts  of  bovine  midwifery  or  leading 
his  master  home  from  the  Plough. 

Yes  :  Granfer  Haffenden  is  certainly  a  help  to  the 
Pinks.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if,  supposing  he  ever 
should  yield  to  some  wild  impulse  and  determine  to 
leave  the  marshes,  Farmer  Pink  gave  him  a  satis- 
factory character.  On  the  other  hand,  I  wouldn't  bet 
even  on  this  event,  for  we  live  in  a  righteous  age, 
and  it  is  an  undoubted  fact  that  Granfer  Haffenden 
does  not  attend  either  church  or  chapel.  I  know  he 
doesn't,  for  I  myself  have  vainly  sought  him  in 
these  places. 

For  a  long  time  I  wondered  where  Mr.  Haffenden 
hid  himself  on  Sundays.  Being  abandoned,  he 
didn't  go  to  any  place  of  worship  ;  being  a  grand- 
father, he  didn't  frequent  any  known  place  of  tryst, 
and,  being  an  eccentric  he  didn't  go  to  the  Plough. 

I  could  account  for  his  Sunday  mornings  all  right — 
the  early  mornings — for  public  sentiment  indulges 
his  known  tastes  to  the  extent  of  allowing  cattle 
to  be  fed  and  cows  to  be  milked  and  water  to  be 
drawn  even  on  a  Sunday,  so  long  as  these  things 
are  done  before  the  hour  appointed  for  public 
worship  ;  but  Sabbath  sentiment  draws  the  line 
at  mending  gates,  damming  marshes,  clipping  hedges, 
cleaning  ditches,  thatching  ricks,  cutting  chaff, 
banking  roots,  scouring  pails,  churning  butter, 
marketing  butter,  adding  up  farthings,  hewing  wood, 
and  leading  your  master  home  from  the  Plough. 

It   was  from   eleven   o'clock  onwards  that   Mr. 


276  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

Haffenden's  Sunday  occupations  became  mysterious. 
What  can  a  man  be  doing  with  his  Sunday  if  he 
doesn't  go  to  divine  worship,  or  go  courting,  or  get 
drunk  ? 

Well,  one  day,  which  was  the  Lord's  Day,  I  solved 
this  mystery.  I  happened  to  be  taken  with  the 
whim  or  fancy  to  go  to  the  marshes,  which  I  did, 
and  there  found  Granfer  Haffenden.  He  was 
leaning  on  a  gate  of  his  own  mending,  watching  the 
cows  of  his  own  minding,  calling  to  the  calves  of  his 
own  rearing  and  damming  the  dams  of  his  own  doing. 
I  watched  him  acting  thus  from  four  o'clock  until 
six  o'clock,  and  he  never  moved,  except  to  change 
elbows  and  spit. 

On  the  following  Sunday,  I  went  again  to  the  same 
place  and  again  found  Granfer  Haffenden  doing  the 
same  thing.  I  found  him  at  three  and  left  him  at 
six,  and  during  those  three  hours  he  did  not  move, 
except  to  change  elbows  and  scratch  the  back  of  his 
ear. 

On  the  third  Sunday,  I  got  to  the  place  of  Granfer 
Haffenden's  devotions  by  two  o'clock,  and,  having 
watched  his  silent  musings  for  more  than  an  hour,  I 
ventured  to  discover  myself  and  to  enquire  after  his 
health.  "  How  are  you  ?  "  I  said. 

"  We  be  pratty  middlin',  thank  ye,  sir,"  responded 
Granfer  Haffenden.  "  That  there  oold  mottled  cow 
don't  thrive  no  better  nor  what  she  ought  to  do, 
but  the  calf's  grooun  fine." 

"  Do  you  always  spend  your  Sundays  in  this 
place,  Mr.  Haffenden  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Well,  yes,"  assented  Mr.  Haffenden.     "  I  gen'ly 


GRANFER  HAFFENDEN'S  SUNDAY    277 

comes  around  yere  and  'aves  a  look  at  me  week's 
work. 

"  They  land  drains,"  he  continued,  "  they  wants 
a  bit  o'  watchin'.  I'd  bank  up  that  cross-dick  now, 
on'y  there 'd  be  such  a  lot  to  say  about  it.  Folks  has 
got  to  be  so  partickler  about  'ow  a  man  behave 
'isself  on  a  Sunday.  There's  a  wonderful  lot  want 
doin'  about  the  place,  if  on'y  a  man  dare  do  it. 
I've  milked  and  tended  the  cattle  and  I've  drawed 
some  water  and  cut  some  chaff.  But  there's  this 
here  dick  want  banking  bad,  it  do,  and  there's  gates 
want  mendin'  and  wood  want  cuttin'  and  thizzle  want 
clearin'  and  ricks  want  tidy  in'  and — all  the  rest  of 
it." 

I  suggested  to  Mr.  Haffenden  that  it  was  good  for 
him  to  rest. 

"  Well,  that's  what  I  be  doin',  beant  I  ?  "  he 
demanded,  with  some  show  of  impatience.  "  I 
aren't  moved  away  from  this  gate  since  dinner-time, 
nor  I  shan't  move  till  tea-time.  If  that  beant  restin' 
what  be  restin'  ?  After  tea,  I  shall  feed  the  beasts, 
and  arter  that  I  shall  stand  up  agin  the  other  gate 
there  and  rest  till  supper-time.  That's  a  pratty 
calf,  that  little  'uri— what  ?  " 

Mr.  Haffenden  changed  elbows  and  yawned. 
"  Bless  ye,"  he  remarked,  "  'tis  slow  work — restin'." 


XXXIX 

The  Naval  Wife 


THE  characters  which  figure  in  the  following  narra- 
tive are  : — 

(rt)A  vendor  of  literature  (hereinafter  called  "  The 
Author  ")  ; 

(b)  A   married  woman   of  complete  respectability 

(hereinafter    called    "  The    Author's    Wife ")  ; 

(c)  A  vulgar  man  in  a  green  baize  apron  (hereinafter 

called  "  The  Porter  "). 

The  incident  took  place  in  the  early  spring  of  the 
year  1916.  Onr  Author  had  returned  from  France, 
where  he  had  spent  four  months  in  the  dual  capa- 
cities (both  entirely  new  to  him)  of  Press  Corres- 
pondent and  Christian.  He  reached  Waterloo 
Station  at  two  o'clock  of  a  March  afternoon,  and  was 
received  with  demonstrations  of  affection  by  his 
strictly  authentic  wife.  She  had  a  taxi-cab  in 
waiting  for  him,  and  a  box  of  his  favourite  cigarettes, 
and  they  drove  at  once  to  a  large  hotel  in  the  West 
End  of  London,  which  we  will  call  the  Hotel  Talbot. 

The  Author  was  very  glad  to  reach  this  place,  for 
278 


THE  NAVAL  WIFE  279 

he  had  had  a  very  sick  crossing,  and  was  cold,  tired, 
and  dirty.  His  wife  prepared  a  sumptuous  bath  for 
him,  scented  with  a  mysterious  white  powder, 
which  looked  like  sherbet,  fizzed  like  sherbet, 
smelt  like  sherbet,  but  was  not  sherbet.  He  put 
on  clean  linen  and  a  new  suit,  and  felt  much  better. 
He  then  descended,  still  accompanied  by  his  faithful 
wife,  into  the  lounge  of  the  hotel,  where  he  partook 
of  tea. 

This  repast  was  rendered  memorable  by  the  un- 
expected intervention  of  a  number  of  quite  ex- 
traneous persons,  dressed  as  Shepherdesses,  and 
Pierrots,  and  Fauns,  and  Elves,  with  painted  faces 
and  bared  shoulders,  who  bounded  in  among  the 
tea  tables  and  jigged  about,  and  upset  a  plate  of 
hot  muffins  ail  over  the  Author's  new  suit. 

The  Author,  having  been  absent  from  England 
for  four  months,  was  unfamiliar  with  its  latest 
social  customs.  He  wanted  muffins,  hot  scones,  tea, 
or,  alternatively,  a  small  whisky  and  soda,  and  the 
substitution  of  a  small  Russian  Ballet,  for  these 
comestibles  did  not  satisfy  him.  So  he  commanded 
the  faithful  wife  to  put  on  her  hat,  and  they  got  a 
cab  and  drove  to  Fleet  Street,  where  a  plain  tea  is 
plain,  even  unto  ugliness.  Subsequently  they  dined 
in  a  severely  English  manner  at  a  severely  English 
eating-house,  and  then  they  visited  a  severely 
English  theatre,  returned  to  their  hotel  and  went  to 
bed.  It  had  been  a  quiet  evening.  It  would  have 
been  a  gay  one  had  not  the  hired  Philomels  and 
mercenary  Chloes  who  broke  out  at  tea-time  arrested 
their  taste  for  fashionable  excitement. 


280  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

The  Author  had  traversed  the  English  Channel  by 
what  is  called  the  Long  Passage,  and  he  had  been 
rocked  and  banged  about  for  fourteen  hours.  So  he 
did  not  have  to  court  the  Goddess  of  Slumber  that 
night  in  the  hotel.  He  was  fast  asleep  within  three 
minutes  of  reaching  the  bedroom,  and  he  slept  so 
soundly  that  he  was  even  unconscious  of  the  sur- 
prising intrusion  which  later  took  place.  His 
attention  was  directed  to  this  by  the  activities  of  his 
wife,  who  shook  and  pounded  him  into  consciousness. 
He  then  sat  up  in  bed  and,  blinking  awkwardly, 
perceived  that  the  bedroom  was  flooded  with  light, 
and  that  he  and  his  wife  were  no  longer  alone. 

A  man  was  in  the  room — a  gross  man,  with  many 
chins,  a  full  stomach,  a  bunch  of  keys,  and  a  green 
baize  apron.  He  gazed  at  the  Author  and  his  wife, 
lying  side  by  side  in  their  matrimonial  bed,  with  an 
expression  of  grim  disapproval.  He  held  a  pink 
envelope  in  his  hand,  and  brought  it  solemnly  to  the 
bedside,  with  a  heavy,  flat-footed  walk,  and  a  brief  : 
"  For  you,  sir." 

The  Author,  still  blinking,  took  the  envelope, 
wondering,  in  a  confused  kind  of  way,  why  the  War 
Cabinet  should  wish  to  communicate  with  him  at 
that  hour  in  the  morning.  He  knew  that  no  private 
individual  could  have  persuaded  the  Postmaster- 
General  to  deliver  a  telegram  at  2  a.m.  He  blinked 
at  the  writing  on  the  envelope  and  then  saw  it  was 
addressed  to  Lieut.  Jenkins,  R.N.,  whereupon,  with 
a  sigh  of  relief,  he  returned  the  missive  to  the  Porter, 
remarking  that  it  was  evidently  not  intended  for  him. 

The  Porter  withdrew  his  hand  from  contact  with 


THE  NAVAL  WIFE  281 

the  flame-coloured  packet.  He  pursed  his  lips  in  the 
determined,  yet  knowing,  manner  of  a  man  who  had 
been  burnt  or  stung  before.  "  That  won't  do," 
said  the  Porter,  "  that's  too  old  a  tale,  sir.  You 
open  the  tallergram,  sir." 

"  But,"  protested  the  Author,  "  the  telegram  is 
addressed  to  somebody  else.  I've  no  right  to  open 
it." 

The  Porter  drew  back  his  upper  lip  and  exhibited 
two  teeth  and  a  void,  in  the  dry  smile  ot  incredulity. 
"  What's  the  good  of  carryin'  on  with  me,  sir  ?  " 
he  remarked :  "  /  never  wrote  the  tallergram. 
You'd  better  open  it." 

Again  the  Author  expostulated,  but  the  Porter 
adhered  firmly  to  the  attitude  which  he  had  taken 
up  of  not  caring  to  notice  such  expostulations. 
"  You  open  the  tallergram,  sir,"  he  kept  on  repeating, 
and,  at  last,  in  a  state  of  confusion  and  despair,  the 
Author  did  open  the  telegram. 

It  was  a  message  signed  by  the  Lords  of  the 
Admiralty,  or  by  some  person  representing  that 
august  body.  The  Author  cannot,  at  this  distance 
of  time,  remember  the  exact  wording,  but  it  amounted 
to  this  :  "  You  are  to  rejoin  your  ship  at  Tilbury 
without  fail  before  7  a.m." 

"  I  told  you  this  message  was  not  for  me,"  ex- 
plained the  Author  in  a  faintly  reproachful  voice, 
as  he  showed  the  message  to  the  Porter.  That 
individual  read  it  carefully  two  or  three  times,  and 
then  said : 

"  Well,  sir  :  there  it  is.  I  think  you'd  better  get 
up." 


282  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  Get  up  !      Why  ?  "   demanded  the  Author. 

The  Porter  did  not  exactly  shrug  his  shoulders, 
but  he  made  a  noise  like  it.  He  then  said  :  "  Well, 
sir,  you've  got  their  Lordships'  orders  plain  enough." 
His  eye,  moist  with  reproach,  travelled  from  the 
Author  to  the  Author's  companion. 

The  Porter's  eye  settled  down,  so  to  speak,  on  this 
lady,  who  was  attired  in  a  little  French  cap  of 
crepe  de  chine  and  the  least  Nonconformist  of  night 
robes.  Suddenly  the  Porter  averted  his  head,  with 
what  may  be  described  as  a  toss  of  the  chins,  and  he 
said,  with  an  air  of  giving  utterance  to  a  general 
reflection  :  "  Seein'  life's  all  very  well,  sir,  but,  dash 
it  all,  there  is  a  War  on  !  " 

The  Author  agreed  ;  but  he  pointed  out  that  his 
name  happened  to  be  anything  but  Jenkins,  and  his 
habits  anything  but  nautical. 

"  Oh,  sir,  what  is  the  good  ?  "  replied  the  Porter. 
"  You'd  better  get  up.  I've  got  my  duties  to  attend 
to,"  he  added.  A  remark  which,  in  the  manner 
of  its  delivery,  carried  with  it  the  threat  of  a  dogged 
determination  to  neglect  even  duty  rather  than 
leave  this  matter  unsettled. 

The  Author  became  indignant.  He  refused  to  get 
up,  and  ordered  the  Porter  to  get  out.  He  recom- 
mended that  gentleman  to  keep  his  arguments  for 
the  real  Lieut.  Jenkins,  and  to  observe,  in  the 
meanwhile,  that  he,  the  Author,  whose  name  was 
anything  but  Jenkins,  had  paid  for  the  exclusive 
occupation  of  that  bedroom,  and  wanted  to  go  to 
sleep. 

It  was  obvious  that  no  language  at  the  Author's 


THE  NAVAL  WIFE  283 

command  could  convince  the  Porter  that  he  had 
brought  his  telegram  to  the  wrong  room,  or  to  the 
wrong  man.  But,  by  dint  of  persistence  and  an  apt 
choice  of  adjectives,  he  was  at  last  made  to  realise 
that  the  Author  did  not  intend  to  get  up,  and  was 
prepared  to  accept  any  consequences  which  might 
arise  from  his  failure  to  do  so.  At  last  the  Porter  went 
unwillingly  to  the  door,  jingling  his  keys  and  shaking 
his  chins. 

At  the  threshold  he  turned,  and  again  directed  a 
severe  and  uncharitable  glance  at  the  Author's  Wife. 
Then,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  tried  to  do  his 
duty,  and  whose  conscience  was  accordingly  at  ease, 
he  lifted  his  bunch  of  keys  above  his  head  in  a  final 
gesture  of  reproof  and  excommunication,  slapped 
to  the  door  behind  him  and  slapped  off  along  the 
corridor. 

The  Author  then  looked  at  his  wife,  and  tried  to 
express  the  resentment  which  he  felt  at  the  in- 
sinuations conveyed  by  the  Porter's  look  and  manner. 
To  the  Author's  surprise,  however,  the  lady  smiled, 
as  she  patted  her  little  cap. 

He  indignantly  turned  out  the  light. 

Then  the  Author  went  to  sleep  again  and  dreamed 
he  was  Lieut.  Jenkins,  R.N.,  and  had  arrived  in 
London  with  Prize  Money,  and  the  wish  to  qualify 
for  an  Admiralty  reprimand. 

On  the  following  day,  the  Author  made  it  his 
particular  pleasure  and  duty  to  circulate  some 
enquiries  about  the  Night  Porter.  He  was  informed 
that  that  individual  could  only  be  interviewed  after 
ii  p.m.  The  Author  therefore  caused  some  news- 


284  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

papers  and  drinks  to  be  brought  to  him  after  dinner  ; 
and,  although  he  was  feeling  tired,  as  the  result  of 
not  having  enjoyed  uninterrupted  sleep  during  the 
preceding  night,  he  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  lounge 
and  waited  and  waited  until  the  Night  Porter  could 
be  interviewed. 

But  the  interview  was,  in  some  respects,  a  failure 

The  Night  Porter  disarmed  hostility  at  the  outset 
of  the  conference  by  admitting  that  he  had  committed 
a  technical  faux  pas.  The  little  misunderstanding 
which  had  taken  place  he  attributed  to  the  careless- 
ness of  a  reception  clerk,  who  had  omitted  to  amend 
the  entries  respecting  Room  139  in  the  hotel  register. 

"  You  see,  sir,"  explained  the  Porter,  "  this  here 
Lieut.  Jenkins,  he  has  left  the  hotel,  and  that's  why 
I  couldn't  find  him."  The  Night  Porter  made  a 
backward  step,  as  if  to  intimate  that  the  interview 
was  at  an  end ;  but,  being  seized  with  an  after- 
thought, he  then  took  a  step  forward,  and  added  the 
following  remarks : 

"  Of  course,  sir,  if  I'd  seen  you  standing  up,  as  you 
are  now,  I  should  have  known  at  once  that  you  was 
not  a  naval  gentleman.  Even  as  you  lay  in  bed  I 
had  my  doubts.  '  This  is  a  funny  looking  matelot,' 
I  said  to  myself.  But  then,  sir,  I  looked  at  the 
lady,  and  the  lady  deceived  me.  The  lady,  sir, 
looked  very  naval." 


XL 

Just  Ginger 


THERE  is  just  one  soldier  of  the  Royal  Howevah 
Regiment,  whom  I  should  like  to  meet  again  in  the 
romantic  sphere  of  civil  life.  This  is  a  cross-eyed 
Sergeant,  named  Ginger.  I  don't  know  the  man's 
other  name  ;  but  he  himself  assured  me  that  Ginger 
was  enough. 

"  Just  say  Ginger  sent  you,"  he  said.  "  That's  all 
you  got  to  say,  Corporal :  Just  Ginger.  She'll  know." 

So  just  Ginger  let  it  be,  hoping  that  this  will  meet 
the  eye  of  that  pie  can.  If  it  should  do  so,  let 
Ginger  be  assured  that  this  means  him,  and  no  other 
Ginger,  and  that  from  the  day  he  takes  his  stripes 
off,  the  wind  will  blow  East. 

Let  me  suggest  to  Ginger  some  of  the  common 
incidents  and  possibilities  of  civil  life.  Among 
civilians,  Ginger,  it  is  customary  to  invalidate  a 
man's  beer.  By  means  of  quiet  stratagem,  you 
intercept  that  beverage  during  its  journey  from  cask 
to  consumer,  and  then  you  "  doctor "  it.  The 
substances  used  for  this  purpose  vary  in  kind 
(according  to  the  imagination  of  the  user)  from 
ordinary  blackbeetles  to  ordinary  rat  poison. 
Personally,  I  always  add  red  ants.  These  combine 
extreme  deadliness  with  the  quality  of  briskness 
and,  when  absorbed  into  the  human  system,  they 

285 


286  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

become  exceedingly  active,  and  claw  the  coatings 
of  the  stomach,  and  bite  the  vermiform  appendix. 

Ginger,  after  the  incredulous  habit  of  all  Ser- 
geants, may  disbelieve  this  statement,  but  the  time 
will  come,  if  my  wishes  are  fulfilled,  when  he  will 
wonder  that  he  ever  doubted  it.  On  that  welcome 
occasion,  he  will  be  observed,  with  quiet  amusement, 
to  be  running  round  and  round  Trafalgar  Square  with 
his  large  tongue  hanging  out,  screaming  for  water. 

Of  course  that  disorderly  state  of  existence  which 
soldiers  call  "  civil  life"  gives  one  opportunities  of 
inconveniencing  a  man  otherwise  than  by  having 
his  intestines  gnawed.  For  example,  there  are 
nearly  four  hundred  different  ways  by  which  an  ex- 
sergeant  can  be  hounded  into  bankruptcy,  and  more 
ways  than  that  of  getting  him  certified  as  a  lunatic, 
and  locked  up  for  life  in  a  padded  room.  I  am  not 
exactly  threatening  these  things.  I  just  throw  out 
ideas,  as  it  were.  All  I  mean  to  suggest  is  that  brute 
strength,  three  stripes,  and  lungs  of  brass,  will  be 
worth  less  to  a  man  than  an  agile  mind,  once  he  is 
demobilized. 

Ginger  first  rose  into  view,  large  and  inevitable, 
at  the  Depot  Gate.  He  looked  like  the  red  sun  at 
the  Gate  of  the  Desert.  I  was  just  edging  coyly  in 
with  an  odd  following  of  recruits  when —  But 
let  me  explain  about  myself  first. 

I  was  what  is  called  a  Conducting  N.C.O.  I  don't 
know  whether  any  reader  who,  like  myself,  is 
middle-aged  and  sedentary,  and  of  a  mild  and 
melancholy  temperament,  has  shared  with  me 
the  experience  of  being  suddenly  and  strangely 
transformed  into  a  dapper  N.C.O. — (hobnailed 


JUST  GINGER  287 

boots,  and  a  boy's  size  service  jacket)  ?  If  so,  the 
reader  will  probably  agree  with  me  that  it  is  a  queer 
and  surprising  sensation,  particularly  when  one  is 
entrusted  with  the  delicate  task  of  taking  recruits 
from  place  to  place.  Particularly,  also,  when  the 
recruits  have  not  yet  learnt  to  follow,  and  some 
want  to  stay  behind,  and  a  few  to  go  elsewhere,  and 
others  are  not  quite  sober.  Among  the  last  named 
there  is  always  an  "old  soldier,"  who  is  always 
surprised  at  your  appearance  and  manner,  but  is 
particularly  surprised  by  your  stripe.  "  You  a 
Corporal ! "  he  says  repeatedly.  "  You !  Well 
I'll  be  soused  !  " 

I  had  to  shepherd  my  mixed  and  straggling 
flock  across  the  streets  of  a  big  town,  and  then  get 
them  into  a  railway  carriage,  or  carriages ;  count 
them  at  every  stop  in  a  journey  which  lasted  over 
two  hours,  and  then  coax  them  along  the  High 
Street  of  a  bold,  cathedral  city,  and  up  a  hill,  some 
mile  and  a  half  in  length  or  height,  to  the  gate  of  the 
Depot.  Here  it  was  customary  for  us  to  halt,  and 
assume  some  sort  of  military  formation  before 
shuffling  shyly  through  the  archway.  And  here, 
as  1  have  said,  we  encountered  Ginger. 

I  don't  know  where  Ginger  came  from,  or  where 
he  went  to,  or  where  he  has  gone  to  (not  that  that 
question  interests  me) .  I  had  never  seen  him  before 
that  one  particular  morning  of  the  hottest  day  in 
July,  and  I  have  never  seen  him  since.  I  suppose 
he  was  put  at  the  Barrack  Gate  to  do  what  he  did  to 
me,  and,  having  done  it,  was  given  a  month's  leave 
on  full  pay  and  allowances,  and  then  put  at  some 
other  gate  to  do  it  to  somebody  else. 


288  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  All  right,"  I  answered  :  "  Thirteen — of  the 
worst." 

"  Put  that  down,  Charlie  !  "  exclaimed  Ginger, 
shouting  to  somebody  inside  the  Guard  Room : 
"  Thirteen  of  the  bluggy  worst." 

"  Righto,  Sergeant !  "  an  agreeable  voice  replied 
from  the  depths  of  that  retreat.  "  Right  ho ! 
Thirteen  '  I  don't  thinks '  from  Sub- Area  J." 

Ginger  then  drew  closer,  and  addressed  me  in  an 
undertone.  "  Are  you  the  Jack  I  have  heard  about 
that  has  the  taxi-cab  ?  " 

I  confessed  that  I  was  that  animal. 

"  All  right !  "  said  Ginger,  "  Then  I'll  'phone  for 
it." 

I  thanked  him,  sighing  deeply.  For  it  costs  a 
lot  of  money  when  a  Sergeant  uses  the  telephone. 

This  taxi-cab  has  to  be  explained.  It  ate  up 
about  four  days' pay,  but  it  got  you  to  the  railway 
station  in  time  to  catch  the  4.12,  which  enabled  you 
to  report  at  your  Head-quarters  at  6.20,  and,  all 
being  well,  to  go  off  duty  with  a  late  pass  at  6.30. 
But  if  you  walked  to  the  railway  station,  you  missed 
the  4.12,  and  then  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  walk 
about  the  least  amusing  cathedral  city  in  the  world, 
for  four  hours,  and  catch  a  train  at  8.30,  and  reach 
your  destination  at  half-past  ten,  when  you  were 
lucky  if  the  Military  Police  did  not  insist  on  putting 
you  up  for  the  night. 

When  I  had  taken  my  debutantes  to  the  Posting 
Room,  and  had  duly  obtained  a  receipt  for  them, 
there  was  nothing  more  to  do  but  call  at  the  office 
of  the  Area  Head-quarters  for  letters  or  parcels,  and 
then,  as  Lord  Curzon  would  say,  "  hop  it."  On 


JUST  GINGER  289 

this  particular  day  I  was  particularly  lucky  in 
receiving  nothing  from  Area  Headquarters  except  a 
sack  of  briquettes  (a  patent  carboniferous  fuel) 
to  take  back  to  that  place  whence  I  came,  for  the  use 
of  the  wife  of  Staff-Sergeant  Bodie. 

I  stumbled  across  the  Barrack  Square — Phew ! 
It  was  hot — holding  the  sack  of  briquettes  at  a 
convenient  distance  from  the  tailor-made  slacks, 
which  one  wears  for  "  conducting  "  purposes.  When 
I  reached  the  gate,  the  taxi-cab  had  arrived,  and 
Ginger  was  close  at  hand.  In  point  of  fact,  he  was 
holding  the  door  open.  This  is  a  statement  which 
soldiers  of  an  older  generation  will  have  difficulty  in 
believing.  I  thanked  Sergeant  Ginger  for  his 
attention,  and  he  then  did  that  unto  me  of  which  I  am 
now  complaining,  and  in  recognition  of  which  I  hope, 
as  I  have  hinted,  to  live  long  enough  to  repay  him. 

Ginger  began  by  making  a  mere  comment.  "  A 
hot  day,  Corporal,"  he  remarked,  taking  the  bag  of 
briquettes  from  me,  and  carefully  placing  it  on 
the  seat  of  my  conveyance.  I  did  not  dispute 
Ginger's  statement.  "  The  sort  of  day,"  he  then 
continued,  "  when  a  soldier  could  be  tempted  to 
interfere  with  a  pot  of  ale.  I  envy  you,  going  down 
into  the  city." 

I  pointed  out  to  Ginger  that  the  Liquor  Control 
Board  had  got  into  touch  with  the  cathedral  city, 
and  that  nothing  of  that  at  all  could  feasibly  be 
arranged  there.  Ginger  pretended  to  be  amused  at 
what  he  called  my  innocence. 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul,  Corporal !  "  he  exclaimed, 
"you   don't  mean  to  tell  me  you're  new  to  the 
T 


290  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

Army  ?  If  you  hadn't  ha'  opened  yar  mouth,  I 
should  ha'  took  you  for  a  regular  Sir  Garnet  man. 
Why,  Corporal,  if  they've  made  a  soldier  of  you, 
you  be  a  soldier,  and,  if  you  want  a  drink,  you  have 
a  drink." 

I  thanked  Ginger  for  his  encouraging  advice,  but 
ventured  to  wonder  how  I  was  going  to  practise  it. 
I  again  called  his  attention  to  the  existence  of  a 
Liquor  Control  Board. 

"  Corporal !  Corporal !  "  said  Ginger.  "  You 
make  a  soldier  laugh.  A  man  o'  your  rank  ought  to 
consider  himself  above  Control  Boards.  Seeing  as 
how  you  seem  to  need  a  hint,  I'll  give  it  you.  You 
tell  your  driver  to  put  you  down  at  the  '  Good 
Intent.'  It's  not  above  a  hand's  throw  from  the 
railway  station." 

"  Does  the  driver  know  the  '  Good  Intent '  ?  "  I 
asked. 

The  man  Ginger,  who  had  evidently  studied 
Scripture,  answered  with  another  question.  "  Does 
a  kitten  know  its  own  milk  queue  ?  "  he  said. 
"  You  trust  your  driver,"  continued  Ginger.  "  Tell 
him  '  somewhere  near  the  Railway  Station.'  That's 
all  you  got  to  tell  him — '  somewhere  near  the 
Railway  Station.'  He  will  know.  You  just  nip  out 
of  the  cab  and  pay  him  off,  and  take  your  parcel  there 
into  the  '  Good  Intent '  and — good  luck  to  you." 

"  Thanks,"  I  said,  as  I  climbed  into  the  cab. 
Then  a  thought  struck  me,  and  I  put  my  head  out 
of  the  window,  and  asked  the  Sergeant  a  further 
question.  "  Is  there  any  signal  required  by  the 
way  ?  Any  ring  to  show,  or  sign  to  make,  or  pass- 
word to  utter  ?  " 


JUST  GINGER  291 

"  R  !  "  replied  the  Sergeant.  "  There'll  be  that 
of  course.  You  just  mention  my  name." 

"Oh,  do  you  know  ?  "  I  began  politely ;  "I 
didn't  quite — that  is,  I  mean  to  say,  what  is  your — " 

"  Ginger  !  "  said  the  Sergeant.  "  Just  say  Ginger. 
That's  all  you  got  to  say,  Corporal.  Just  Ginger. 
She'll  know." 

"  Who  is  she  ? "  I  enquired,  as  my  vehicle  moved  off 

Ginger  jumped  on  to  the  footboard,  and  shouted 
through  the  window :  "  Mrs.  Pugpitt.  A  nice 
lady.  Just  Ginger.  She'll  know." 

Ginger's  face  disappeared  from  the  window,  and 
his  voice  died  away,  and  I  thought  he  had  stepped 
out  of  the  picture.  But  presently,  amid  the  noise 
connected  with  my  driver's  cathedral  city  style  of 
changing  gear,  another  noise  became  audible,  and 
the  face  of  Ginger  appeared  at  the  other  window. 
"  Hi ! "  he  exclaimed,  shouting  very  loudly  to 
drown  the  gear-box,  "  You  go  right  through  the 
four-ale  bar,  and  along  a  passage,  and  there  is  a 
pantry  hatch  in  the  wall,  and  you  shove  your  head 
through  that,  and  tell  her  '  Ginger.'  She'll  know." 
Again  Ginger  removed  his  face  from  the  window,  and, 
so  far  as  I  know,  he  did  not  again  replace  it  there. 

When,  with  several  hiccups  and  severe  intestinal 
convulsions,  the  car  at  last  pulled  up,  I  did  in  fact 
find  myself  at  the  front  door  of  a  hostelry,  which 
was  in  fact  called  the  "  Good  Intent."  Paying  off 
the  cabman,  as  directed  by  Ginger,  and  taking  my 
bag  of  coal-dust,  but  holding  it  at  a  convenient 
distance  from  my  conducting  slacks,  I  entered  the 
— ah — hotel. 

I  went  right  through  the  four-ale  bar  as  I  was 


292  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

directed  to  do,  and  as  I  should  in  any  case  have 
considered  it  hygienically  wise  to  do.  And  I  walked 
along  a  dark  and  narrow  passage,  at  the  end  of 
which,  as  prophesied,  I  found  a  pantry  hatch, 
through  which  I  put  my  head.  1  saw  a  small, 
dark,  damp  room,  containing  beers  in  barrel,  a 
corrupt  smell,  and  Mrs.  Pugpitt. 

Mrs.  Pugpitt,  as  Ginger  truly  said,  was  a  nice 
lady.  She  was  also  a  large  lady — an  exceptionally 
large  lady — having  three  chins  and  a  terraced 
abdomen.  She  greeted  me  civilly,  but  without  an 
ostentatious  display  of  cordiality,  and  asked  what 
I  required.  My  reply  was  to  wink  at  Mrs.  Pugpitt, 
and  to  gesticulate  significantly  with  elbow  and 
eyebrow,  while  I  uttered  the  word  "Ginger."  Mrs. 
Pugpitt  looked  surprised. 

I  made  further  gestures,  and  repeated  the  word. 
Mrs.  Pugpitt,  giving  me  what  appeared  to  be  a 
confidential  look,  put  the  question  :  "  How  much  ?  " 
I  said  "About  a  quart."  Mrs.  Pugpitt  then  nodded 
briskly,  and,  removing  a  large,  cool  mug  from  its 
shelf,  disappeared  into  an  inner  room. 

Very  soon  she  returned,  bringing  with  her  the 
same  mug,  now  beautified  with  a  crown  of  white 
froth.  "  That,"  she  said,  "  will  be  1/8."  I  paid 
the  money  gladly. 

On  putting  my  lips  to  the  mug,  the  thought  which 
first  struck  me  was  that  Mrs.  Pugpitt  did  not  know 
her  own  barrels.  It  then,  however,  occurred  to  me 
that  perhaps  she  had  misunderstood  my  signals. 
For  the  mug  contained  not  beer,  but  some  other 
liquid  to  which  I  hesitate  to  give  a  name  Certain 


JUST  GINGER  293 

friends,  to  whom  I  have  described  it,  say  that  it 
must  have  been  ginger-beer.  In  any  case,  it  was  a 
composition  which  looked  like  somebody's  bath 
water,  and  tasted  unnatural. 

I  thought  it  inadvisable  to  perturb  a  woman  of 
Mrs.  Pugpitt's  figure  by  argument,  and  so  I  carried 
the  peculiar  beverage  away  from  her  pantry  hatch. 
While  I  was  spreading  it  thoughtfully  about  the 
floor  of  the  passage,  the  sound  of  a  distant  railway 
whistle  struck  my  ear,  which  reminded  me  that  it 
was  high  time  I  looked  at  my  watch.  Three  minutes 
past  four  !  That  would  be  the  London  Express 
rushing  through.  As  the  station  was  only  a  "  hand's 
throw "  from  Mrs.  Pugpitt's  hospitable  house,  I 
would  have  ample  time  to  try  the  password  again. 
I  did  so. 

This  time,  I  flattered  myself,  my  gesticulations 
were  very  elaborate  indeed,  and  I  pronounced  the 
word  "  Ginger  "  four  times  in  a  loud  and  distinct 
voice.  My  insistence  was  not  lost  upon  Mrs.  Pug- 
pitt,  who  smiled  at  me  archly. 

"  How  much  ?  "  she  said. 

"  A  quart,"  I  replied. 

Again  Mrs.  Pugpitt  disappeared  with  an  empty 
mug,  and  again  she  reappeared  with  a  full  and 
foaming  one.  Again  she  asked  for  1/8,  and  again 
I  gladly  paid  it.  One  look  was  enough. 

"  But  I  said  '  Ginger '  !  "  was  my  reproachful 
comment. 

"  Well,  what  of  it  ?  "  responded  Mrs.  Pugpitt. 
"  You  said  Ginger,  and  you  got  Ginger." 

"  No,  no,"  I  protested  :  "  Not  Ginger— GINGER  !  " 


294  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  I  don't  follow  you,"  said  Mrs.  Pugpitt,  "  with 
yar  Ginger  !  Ginger  !  And  I'm  not  the  sort  of  lady 
to  stand  no  impiddence  from  soldiers." 

It  didn't  seem  worth  while  to  argue  the  matter, 
It  was  all  so  complicated  and  abstract.  Besides, 
I  had  a  train  to  catch.  So  I  wearily  picked  up  my 
bag  of  coals,  and  dragged  it  after  me  into  the 
blinding  glare  of  the  July  sun,  and  the  heartless 
High  Street  of  the  cathedral  city.  And  I  thought 
incredulously  of  those  far-off  and  uneventful  days 
when  one  sat  about  on  chairs,  writing  short  poems 
for  the  religious  press,  and  being  paid  for  doing  so. 
Then  I  looked  at  my  watch  again.  Eight  minutes 
past  four.  Then  I  looked  about  me. 

It  at  once  became  evident  that  Ginger  was  one  of 
those  irresponsible  liars,  the  sort  of  man  who  lies  by 
instinct,  about  everything. 

The  Railway  Station  was  at  least  half  a  mile 
away,  and  I  had  missed  my  train. 

So,  regardless  of  my  conducting  slacks  and  of  the 
curious  glances  of  passing  Prebendaries,  I  dumped 
my  sack  of  soot  on  the  cathedral  city  pavement, 
and  sat  on  it.  I  sat  there  for  about  four  hours, 
waiting  for  my  next  train,  and  thinking  about 
Ginger.  It  took  me  a  long  time  to  think  out  the 
ant  idea,  but,  when  it  at  last  presented  itself,  I  knew 
that  my  afternoon  had  not  been  wasted. 

Yes.  Looking  back  on  that  afternoon,  and  re- 
calling the  evil  face  of  Ginger,  I  feel  that  one  can't 
go  far  wrong  with  ants.  They  claw  the  coatings 
of  your  stomach,  and  bite  your  vermiform  appendix. 


XLI 

Houp  La 


IT  began  with  my  pretty  cousin  Gillian  presenting 
me  with  a  small  gift. 

This  pretty  cousin,  whose  plain  husband  is  making 
a  stay  of  indefinite  length  in  the  Rhine  provinces 
of  Germany,  hurled  herself  at  my  door  in  a  small 
two-seated  motor  car.  The  vehicle  jazzed  rather 
freely  when  her  brakes  were  applied,  and  did  not 
do  a  lot  of  good  to  the  early  spearheads  of  my  early 
tulips  ;  but,  in  the  pleasure  and  surprise  of  seeing  my 
pretty  cousin,  I  hardly  so  much  as  swore  at  her. 

After  mutual  salutations  had  been  exchanged, 
I  was  endowed  with  the  present.  This  consisted  of  a 
minute  silk  cushion,  smelling  faintly  of  decayed 
lavender,  and  embroidered  with  coloured  silk,  with 
a  representation  of  the  German  Imperial  Ensign, 
and  the  inscription  "  Gott  mit  uns." 

"  This  is  a  thing  which  is  quite  unsuitable  for  our 
bazaar,"  said  my  cousin,  Gillian,  "  so  I  am  giving 
it  to  you." 

I  might  have  pointed  out  that  a  perfume  of  such 

295 


296  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

palpably  Prussian  origin  was  equally  unfitted  to 
associate  with  my  British-born  handkerchiefs.  But 
this  cheap  German  smell-bag  seemed  to  constitute 
an  inadequate  subject  on  which  to  wrangle  with 
anyone  so  pretty  as  Gillian.  I  merely  asked  her 
where  she  found  the  thing. 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  said  Gillian.  "  You  see  I  am 
running  a  bran-tub  at  this  bazaar,  and  people  have 
been  sending  me  things — stacks  of  things.  Some 
of  them  are  perfectly  good,  but,  somehow,  unsuitable. 
That  scent-satchet  for  instance  is  a  perfectly  good 
German  scent-satchet,  but  somehow — well,  I  thought 
I  had  better  give  it  to  you.  And  now,  having  given 
you  something,  of  course  I  want  something  in  return. 
I  want  you  to  arrange  not  to  be  busy  on  Thursday 
week,  and  to  come  with  me  to  Pucklefield — to  the 
Corn  Exchange — and  help  with  my  bran-tub.  I 
thought  you  could  stand  beside  me  and  stir  the  bran 
about. 

I  intimated  to  my  cousin  Gillian  that  she  was 
asking  rather  much. 

"  I  know,"  said  Gillian.  "  It's  very  hard  on  you 
Powerful  Thinkers  to  have  to  mix  with  common 
curates,  but  they're  perfectly  good  curates,  and  it's 
a  perfectly  good  Corn  Exchange,  and,  if  it  raises  the 
£500  we  must  have,  it  will  be  a  perfectly  good 
bazaar.  I  shall  call  for  you  at  nine  a.m.  on  Thursday 
week." 

As  the  object  of  the  proposed  bran-tub  appeared 
to  be  a  worthy  one,  I  was  unable  to  contradict  her. 
She  then  tripped  brghtly  to  her  little  car,  started 
the  engine,  jumped  inside,  and  jazzed  off.  This 


HOUP  LA !  297 

time  she  did  not  jazz  into  my  tulips,  but  ploughed 
up  my  Limnanthis  Douglasii  instead. 

I  made  a  note  of  the  appointment  for  Thursday 
week,  and,  on  the  morning  indicated,  I  timed  my 
arrangements  so  well  that  I  was  dressed  and  shaved 
and  breakfasted  by  a  quarter  to  nine.  I  was,  there- 
fore, quite  ready  for  cousin  Gillian  when  her  car 
jazzed  up  to  the  door  at  twenty  minutes  to  eleven. 

"I  expect  I  am  rather  late,"  said  cousin  Gillian, 
very  briskly,  "  so  you  mustn't  keep  me  waiting. 
Unfortunately  the  bran-tub  burst.  They  always 
do,  and  I  had  to  take  it  home  again.  Jump  in  now, 
and  mind  where  you  put  your  feet.  There's  bran 
and  teddy  bears  everywhere." 

We  arrived  at  the  Pucklefield  Corn  Exchange 
very  quickly,  and  there  the  bazaar  spirit  at  once 
manifested  itself  in  the  form  of  a  brief  dispute  about 
money.  Old  Sir  Bellamy  Button,  K.C.B.,  was  stand- 
ing at  the  door,  and  there  he  stopped  us  and  de- 
manded five  shillings.  Why  ?  As  my  cousin  said 
"  Why  ?  " 

Sir  Bellamy  was  very  firm  about  it,  and  pointed 
to  the  bills  and  posters  with  which  the  fa$ade  of  the 
hall  was  covered. 

Gillian  argued  thus  with  the  door-keeper.  "  Look 
here,  Sir  Bellamy,  your  reasoning's  all  wonky.  It 
is  one  thing  to  expect  people  to  pay  for  admission  to 
the  Corn  Exchange,  but  it's  quite  another  to  expect 
the  bazaar  to  pay.  We  are  the  bazaar." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  dear  lady."  Sir  Bellamy 
freely  admitted  the  truth  of  the  statement.  "But, 
don't  you  see,"  he  added,  "  there  are  about  300 


298  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

other  girls  who  are  the  bazaar.  So  we're  chargin' 
'em  all  for  admission.  Helps  the  fund,  don't  you 
see." 

As  there  was  no  getting  past  the  General  without 
payment,  we  paid. 

Our  entrance  into  the  Corn  Exchange  gave  much 
relief  to  the  principal  organizer  of  the  bazaar.  This 
lady,  Mrs.  Loosestrife-Pimm,  by  name,  a  portly 
person  encased  in  beadwork,  had  almost  despaired 
of  our  arrival.  "  I  have  been  distracted,  my  dear, 
distracted  ! "  she  exclaimed,  with  a  tragic  gesture. 
First  your  bran-tub  nevah  came,  and  then  the 
fish-pond  broke." 

The  principal  organizer  frowned  deeply  on  my  being 
presented  to  her,  not,  as  I  subsequently  found  out, 
because  my  appearance  was  so  distasteful,  but 
because  it  connoted  a  gastric  problem. 

"  The  question  is,  Mr.  Smith " 

"  Not  Mr.  Smith,"  interposed  my  cousin  Gillian. 

"  I  said  Mr.  Smith,"  insisted  the  Principal  Or- 
ganizer. "  The  question  is,  Mr.  Smith,  when  you 
are  to  get  out  to  your  lunch.  I  think  one-thirty 
would  be  convenient.  After  Miss  Brownlow,  of  Leeds, 
has  spoken." 

I  bowed. 

"  Miss  Brownlow,  of  Leeds,"  continued  the  Princi- 
pal Organiser,  addressing  Gillian,  "  is  going  to  give 
us  a  perfectly  fascinating  lecture  on  paper  d'oyley 
making." 

The  Principal  Organiser  then  resumed  her  frown 
on  suddenly  reflecting  that  Gillian  also  had  her 
physiological  needs,  "Oh,  but  there's  your  lunch," 


HOUP  LA !  299 

she  cried  dramatically,  pressing  a  hand  to  her  fore- 
head.    "  How  about  two  o'clock  for  your  lunch  ?  " 

On  receiving  Gillian's  assurance  that  "  any  old 
time  "  would  do,  Mrs.  Loosestrife-Pimm  was  re- 
stored to  calm,  and  left  us,  exulting,  to  receive  a  new 
fish-pond  which  three  strong  young  women  were 
carrying  in  from  the  milliner's  shop  in  the  High 
Street. 

I  have  to  state,  since  truth  is  all  important,  even 
at  the  risk  of  appearing  conceited,  that  our  bran- 
tub  was  enormously  successful.  From  the  moment 
we  got  it  going,  it  established  itself  as  the  most 
popular  thing  in  the  Corn  Exchange.  Not  children 
only,  but  those  of  larger  growth  and  girth,  sur- 
rounded us  continuously,  clamouring  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  plunge  their  eager  hands  into  the  tub  of 
miller's  offal  in  search  of  reward  for  the  rashly 
ventured  sixpence.  The  prizes  varied  in  kind, 
from  articles  of  mere  vanity  to  those,  like  wooden 
cooking  spoons,  of  sheer  necessity.  I  need  hardly 
say  that  penwipers  and  pincushions  predominated. 

Not  even  the  fascinating  lecture  on  paper  d'oyleys, 
delivered  by  Miss  Brownlow,  of  Leeds,  stayed  the 
appetite  for  speculation,  and  Miss  Brownlow's  most 
exquisite  designs  were  entirely  disregarded  by  the 
throng  of  venturers  around  our  stand. 

It  was  nearly  two  o'clock  before  Miss  Brownlow 
concluded  her  address,  and  still  the  investing  public 
surged  about  us.  Then  Mrs.  Loosestrife-Pimm 
reappeared  and  frowned  at  us.  "Do  you  know,  Mr. 
Smith,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  thinking  about  your 
lunch,  and  I  daresay  you  are  getting  hungry.  Would 


300  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

three  o'clock  be  too  late  for  you  ?  "  I  assured  the 
Principal  Organiser  that  three  o'clock  was  my 
favourite  hour  for  lunching. 

By  a  quarter  past  three,  when  Mrs.  Loosestrife- 
Pimm  reappeared,  remarking  that  she  had  been 
wondering  if  I  wasn't  hungry,  and  asking  whether 
four  o'clock  would  suit  me,  the  "  prizes  "  in  our  tub 
were  all  exhausted,  and  we  had  no  more  to  offer. 
There  then  arose  the  problem  of  "  lucky  numbers." 
These  were  held  by  lucky  dipsters  to  the  extent  of 
nearly  a  hundred.  The  lucky  holders  presented 
themselves  at  half-past  three,  which  was  the  hour 
appointed  for  the  distribution  of  our  "  lucky " 
prizes.  As  not  one  single  prize  was  then  extant,  we 
recommended  the  prize-winners  to  return  at  half-past 
four,  and  in  the  meantime  to  hasten  to  the  end  of  the 
hall  where  the  eloquent  Miss  Brownlow  was  again 
about  to  lecture,  her  subject  this  time  being  the 
home  manufacture  of  cardboard  hats. 

Having  by  this  means  relieved  the  pressure  sur- 
rounding our  bran-tub,  and  having  covered  that 
receptacle,  because  bran  is  bran,  and  my  cousin 
keeps  a  goat,  we  hurried  off  in  search  of  the  Principal 
Organiser,  in  order  to  discuss  with  that  lady  this 
perplexing  matter  of  the  prizes  which  did  not  exist. 
Mrs.  Loosestrife-Pimm  was  glad  to  see  us,  because, 
as  she  explained  with  a  frown,  she  had  just  been 
wondering  whether  we  had  had  any  lunch,  and 
whether  five  o'clock  would  suit  us.  We  replied  that 
five  o'clock  would  suit  us  admirably  for  the  midday 
meal,  but  that,  in  the  meantime,  we  were  seeking  one 
hundred  small  prizes  for  distribution  to  one  hundred 


HOUP  LA !  301 

earnest  prize-winners  This  matter,  it  appeared! 
was  one  outside  the  Principal  Organiser's  province, 
and  she  referred  us  to  Miss  Smee,  the  Assistant 
Organiser. 

Miss  Smee  didn't  happen  to  possess  such  a  thing 
as  one  hundred  prizes,  nor  had  she  seen  any  any- 
where. She  referred  us  to  Sir  Bellamy  Button. 

Sir  Bellamy's  solution  of  the  problem  was  that 
we  should  offer  the  prizewinners  a  conjuring  enter- 
tainment, in  lieu  of  prizes.  He  himself,  he  said, 
could  do  a  rather  clever  trick  with  an  orange  and  a 
candle,  and  his  son  from  Uppingham,  he  said,  could 
do  several  others.  The  conjuring  solution  did  not 
commend  itself  to  us,  but,  in  default  of  any  other,  we 
were  tempted  to  accept  it.  Fortunately,  however, 
before  committing  ourselves  to  this  acceptance,  we 
looked  about  us,  and  thus  we  were  guided  by  a  kindly 
Fate  to  the  true  solution  of  the  problem. 

It  was  a  very  simple  solution :  namely  the 
Houp-la  stall. 

This  was  a  perfectly  good  Houp-la  stall,  replete 
with  pincushions  of  every  kind.  But  nobody 
seemed  to  be  using  them  or  minding  them. 

To  remove  one  hundred  articles,  comprising 
pincushions,  candlesticks,  scent-bottles,  and  boot- 
brushes,  from  the  Houp-la  stall  and  store  to  the 
bran-tub  stand  and  store,  was  the  work  of  two  brisk 
minutes.  We  completed  the  work  of  transfer  at 
half-past  four  exactly,  and,  by  five  o'clock,  every 
lucky  holder  had  been  allotted  an  appropriate  and 
useful  prize. 

At  that  moment  the  lady  who  was  supposed  to  be 


302  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

in  charge  of  the  Houp-la  stall,  but  who  had  so 
patently  neglected  it,  was  seen  to  return  from  a 
prolonged  attendance  upon  the  eloquent  and  in- 
structive Miss  Brownlow,  and  to  stare  with  as- 
tonished eyes  at  her  empty  stall.  A  small  boy  who 
had  been  at  the  bazaar  since  daybreak,  and  had 
dipped  in  our  tub  eight  times  but  had  failed  to 
obtain  one  lucky  number,  and  had  accordingly 
become  soured,  was  seen  to  address  the  neglectful 
guardian  of  the  Houp-la  stall.  This  lady  was  then 
seen  to  glance  in  our  direction  and  to  take  a  brisk 
step  forward. 

"  What  about  lunch  ?  "  I  said  to  cousin  Gillian. 
"  It's  five  minutes  to  five." 

"  We'll  go  at  once,"  responded  Gillian.  "If  we 
leave  it  any  later  the  soup  may  be  cold." 


XLII 

Mr.  Rummery's  Celebration 


I  WILL  own  that  our  village  lost  no  time  in  putting 
out  its  Union  Jacks :  though  most  of  them  were 
hanging  upside  down.  But,  like  every  other  village 
in  the  Kingdom,  we  have  our  doctrinaires,  and  these 
hung  out  arguments— and  hung  them  upside  down. 
The  name  of  our  abstractionist  is  Rummery. 

"  I  hear  they've  declared  Peace,"  said  old  Mr. 
Rummery,  wiping  his  swab-hook  with  a  piece  of 
red  flannel  which  was  a  very  obvious  discard  of  old 
Mrs.  Rummery's.  Mr.  Rummery  stood  in  the 
ditch,  averting  his  gaze  from  the  tangled  hedge 
which  awaited  his  hook. 

Mr.  Rummery,  who  is  a  dessicated  little  man  of 
spidery  formation,  was  habited  as  usual  in  a  black 
hat  and  a  black  suit,  and  in  a  starched  collar  which 
had  achieved  synthetically  a  hue  in  harmony  with 
the  rest  of  his  apparel.  These  garments  impart  an 
air  of  monotony  to  Mr.  Rummery's  appearance, 
which  is,  however,  to  some  extent,  relieved  by  the 
iridescent  sparkle  of  a  minute  globe  like  a  very  small 

303 


304  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

diamond  which  he  always  wears  at  the  tip  of  his 
nose.  Mr.  Rummery  was  contemplating  this  jewel 
now  with  every  appearance  of  satisfaction  ;  for  it  is 
Mr.  Rummery's  custom,  when  mentally  exercised, 
to  close  his  eyelids  with  a  flickering  movement  and 
gaze  entranced  at  the  tip  of  his  nose.  This  mesmeric 
action,  which  he  executes  with  profound  delibera- 
tion, is  a  certain  indication  of  Mr.  Rummery's 
intention  to  form  and  utter  an  idea,  just  as  the 
gradual  re-opening  of  his  eyes  presages  action  with 
the  swab-hook. 

'  'Tis  a  wonder  to  me,"  continued  Mr.  Rummery, 
gazing  steadfastly  down  his  nose  with  the  eyelids 
flickering  powerfully,  "  'tis  a  wonder  to  me  that 
they  should  have  declared  peace.  I  can't  see  that 
at  all.  Stake  my  waistcoat  if  I  can !  And  so  I 
told  her  this  afternoon,  but  she  wouldn't  agree  to  it. 
Stubborn  as  ever  she  be." 

Mr.  Rummery's  "  she  "  is  a  celebrated  person  ; 
though  her  fame  is  confined  to  this  village  and  to  the 
personal  annals  of  Mr.  Rummery.  The  Lady 
Elizabeth  Pengelly— for  it  is  thus  that  this  great 
person  is  called  by  people  other  than  Mr.  Rummery— 
is  an  aged  resident  of  the  village  who  inhabits 
alternately  a  stucco  mansion  or  a  wicker  bath-chair. 
Mr.  Rummery  has  been  pulling  this  bath-chair 
around  the  landscape  (on  fine  afternoons)  for  fifteen 
years.  As  drawing  a  bath-chair  is  not  an  act  which 
precludes  Mr.  Rummery  from  squinting  steadfastly 
at  the  ghttering  pendant  already  described,  he  is 
able  to  talk  as  he  goes.  The  subject  of  his  talk 
and  the  nature  of  "  her "  replies  are  faithfully 


MR.  RUMMERY'S  CELEBRATION      305 

recorded  on  subsequent  occasions  when  he  attends 
with  his  swab-hook  upon  those  who  still  retain  faith 
in  his  powers  of  husbandry. 

"  She  says  to  me,"  pursued  Mr.  Rummery,  "  as 
she  can't  see  no  wrong  in  them  declaring  Peace. 
It's  their  place  to  declare  Peace,  she  says. 

"  Now,"  continued  Mr.  Rummery,  "  I  don't  care 
the  value  of  a  turnip  if  'tis  their  place  or  if  'tisn't ; 
and  so  I  told  her.  They  harn't  got  no  right  to 
declare  Peace  at  all,  and  that's  flat.  They  ought  to 
proclaim  it.  Declare  War  :  proclaim  Peace.  That 
is  the  professed  way  of  it  according  to  all  the  regu- 
lations. But  she,  she  won't  have  this  at  all.  She 
says  she  never  heard  such  ungovernable  rubbish. 

"  '  You  stop  your  drivel,  Rummery,'  she  says  to 
me — what's  that  mean,  sir,  '  drivel '  ?  " 

"  It's  another  word  for  argument,"  I  replied. 

Mr.  Rummery  nodded  in  acceptance  of  this 
definition.  "  '  You  stop  your  argument,  Rummery,' 
she  says  to  me,  '  and  pull  me  up  the  hill  and  stop 
at  Mrs.  Scrubsole's  cottage.' ' 

"  '  Mrs.  Scrubsole's  ? '  I  answered  back.  '  What 
you  want  with  her  then  ?  You  ain't  never  going  to 
try  and  overcome  a  poor  old  widow  like  that  with 
your  "  declarations  "  ?  I  know  more  about  Mrs. 
Scrubsole  than  what  you  do,'  I  says,  '  and  if  that 
ain't  proclaimed  the  old  lady  won't  have  it.' 

"  '  You  shut  up/  says  Lady  Elizabeth,  '  and  get 
me  up  the  hill.'  " 

Mr.  Rummery  discontinued  his  narrative  at  this 
point  in  order  to  threaten  the  hedge  with  his  swab- 
hook.  He  resisted  this  destructive  impulse,  however, 
u 


306  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

and  went  on  with  his  memoirs  instead — at  eightpence 
an  hour. 

"  I  hoisted  her  a  few  yards  up,"  he  said,  "  and 
then  the  fancy  took  me  for  to  try  her  with  another. 
"  '  If  they  don't  proclaim  it,  where's  the  guarantee 
come  in  ?  '  I  says. 

"  '  I  don't  foliar  you,  Rummery,'  says  she. 

"  I  puts  it  straight  to  her.  '  Unless  'tis  pro- 
claimed, 'tisen  lawful.  Do  you  f oiler  that  ? '  " 

"'Oh,  pull  the  dam  chair,'  says  'er  ladyship,  'an 
then  per'aps  I  can  foller.'  " 

"  So  I  hoisted  her  up  a  few  yards  more,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Rummery  ;  "  but  then  a  fresh  idea  come 
over  me — to  change  the  subject  an'  give  'er  one  she 
couldn't  answer.  '  How  will  you  goo  an  ?  '  I  says, 
'  the  day  you  urges  me  up  this  hill  a  time  too  many, 
and  I  drops  dead  ?  ' 

"'Sit  still  and  holler  till  somebody  alive  turns  up,' 
says  Lady  Elizabeth. 

"  You  see,"  explained  Mr.  Rummery,  looking 
very  surprised,  "  I  reckoned  that  I  had  give  her  one 
that  time  as  she  couldn't  answer.  But  she  could.  A 
cantankerous  old  lady,  that.  She  got  a  answer  ready 
every  time." 

"  '  Hollering,'  I  says,  '  won't  help  you  to  pay  for 
my  funeral,  nor  yet  the  insurance.  You  will  have  to 
pay  my  burial  expenses,  and  you  will  have  to  keep 
my  wife.  That  is  the  law,  that  is  :  if  anybody  drops 
dead  through  pulling  their  heart  out  in  anybody 
else's  service,  then  that  person  got  to  keep  their  wife. 
You  remember  that,'  I  says  '  for  what  I  be  telling 
you  is  law.' 


MR.  RUMMERY'S  CELEBRATION      307 

"  She  couldn't  answer  me  that  time  because  she 
darsen't ;  for  she  come  on  coughing  with  the 
asthma,  and  I  had  to  slug  her  in  the  back  the  same 
as  usual. 

"  She  gives  me  credit  for  that,  I'll  own.  She 
always  confesses  as  she  harn't  never  experienced 
neer  a  chairman  to  hit  the  cough  out  of  her  as  quick 
as  me.  Then  I  had  to  go  and  fetch  a  drop  of  water 
for  the  old  girl,  for  'tis  a  pity  to  see  her  ladyship 
suffer,  if  she  do  bring  it  on  herself  with  so  much 
argument.  And  then  I  straightened  up  the  cushions, 
and  held  the  old  girl's  head  up  till  her  breath  come 
back.  And,  when  her  bellows  was  working  again, 
she  patted  my  hand  for  a  signal,  and  I  danced  she 
up  the  hill. 

"  Old  Mrs.  Scrubsole,  she  see  us  hotcherling  up, 
and  come  to  her  gate  :  and  Lady  Elizabeth,  she  looks 
at  me  sideways,  and  then  speaks  to  her. 

"  '  Have  you  heard  the  news,  Mrs.  Scrubsole  ?  ' 
says  she  :  '  they  talks  about  proclaiming  Peace.' 

"  So  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Rummery,  "  she  give  in  to 
my  argument  after  all." 


XLIII 

The  Psetonian 


PSETON  is  a  school  in  Sussex.  Of  course,  Pseton  is 
not  the  real  name  of  the  school.  Pseton  is  a  word 
which  I  have  myself  composed,  forming  it  from  a 
combination  of  the  word  "  Eton  "  and  the  prefix 
"  Pseudo."  Pseton  is,  in  other  words,  a  would-be 
public  school,  and  as  it  typifies  a  whole  class  of 
schools  which  have  recently  sprung  into  existence  in 
every  part  of  England,  I  think  it  is  worth  a  few 
minutes'  consideration. 

Pseton  somehow  reminds  me  of  that  American 
coffee  substitute  which  was  so  much  advertised  a 
few  years  ago.  Of  "  Kaffko,"  or  whatever  it  was 
called,  its  proprietors  very  frankly  said  :  "It  looks 
like  coffee,  smells  like  coffee,  tastes  like  coffee,  but 
is  not  coffee."  With  equal  justice  it  may  be  said  of 
Pseton  that  it  talks  like  Eton,  thinks  like  Eton,  acts 
like  Eton,  but  is  not  Eton.  Pseton  is,  in  fact,  an 
Eton  substitute.  While  costing  much  less  than  the 
genuine  article,  it  is  claimed  by  those  who  ought  to 
know  to  be  virtually  the  same  thing. 

I  do  not  know  exactly  how  many  Psetons  there  may 
be  in  England  ;  but  I  do  know  that  there  are 
five  or  six  of  them  in  the  county  of  Sussex  alone, 

308 


THE  PSETONIAN  309 

and  that  other  counties  which  I  have  visited  seem 
to  be  equally  well  endowed.  The  Sussex  Psetons 
each  accommodate  about  three  hundred  boys.  They 
have  no  particular  traditions  of  their  own,  the  oldest 
of  them  being  about  thirty  years  of  age,  but  this 
does  not  mean  that  they  have  no  traditions  to  offer. 
They  claim  to  have  selected  and  assimilated  all  the 
best  traditions  of  all  the  older  schools,  and  are 
able  therefore  to  offer  your  son  a  very  strong  extract 
of  tradition,  and  to  do  so  on  very  favourable  terms, 
their  fees  being  considerably  less  than  half  those 
charged  at  any  one  old  school  for  one  old  tradition. 
You  can  send  your  son  to  Pseton  for  £80  a  year  or 
even  less,  and  for  this  ridiculous  sum  you  can  buy 
him  not  merely  an  Eton  manner,  but  a  Marlborough 
walk  and  a  Winchester  stutter  as  well.  The  com- 
bined prejudices  of  all  three  schools,  and  of  all  the 
others  also,  accompany  these  physical  accessions. 

The  consequences  of  this  favourable  state  of  our 
educational  affairs  are  many.  We  are  producing  a 
rapidly  growing  race  of  stiff  Psetonians.  We  produce 
them  in  almost  the  same  quantity,  and  quite  with 
the  same  facility  with  which  California  produces 
plums.  At  the  same  time,  however,  our  stock  of 
what  I  may  call  humdrum  workers  seems  to  be 
diminishing. 

There  is  hardly  a  farmer  in  Sussex  who  is  not 
financially  able  to  send  his  son  to  Pseton,  and  those 
who  avail  themselves  of  the  educational  opportunities 
thus  offered  are  rewarded  by  being  able  to  behold 
in  their  sons  a  gradual  but  complete  improvement, 
or  at  any  rate  enlargement,  of  style  and  thought. 


3io  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

A  Pseton  mind  is  naturally  elevated  above  manure 
and  mangels.  There  is  scarcely  a  bank  clerk  in  the 
county  who  is  not  now  able  to  secure  for  his  son 
a  mental  outlook  which  is  extremely  antipathetic  to 
the  idea  of  commerce. 

I  do  not  say  that  this  state  of  affairs  is  bad ;  I 
merely  state  the  undoubted  fact  of  its  existence. 
The  small  manager  of  a  small  bank  in  a  small  town 
who  sends  his  son  to  Pseton  to  acquire  the  Pseton 
manner  and  the  Pseton  prejudices  may  be  right  in 
thinking  that  the  boy  has  benefited  by  acquiring 
those  commodities  at  the  expense  of  his  power  to 
earn  a  plain  living  in  a  plain  way.  I  must  confess, 
too,  that  there  is  something  irresistibly  attractive 
about  that  degage  Pseton  manner,  so  reminiscent  of 
the  old-established  manner  from  which  it  is  copied. 

It  is  only  fair,  however,  to  point  out  that  there  is  a 
material  difference  in  the  respective  bases  of  the 
Pseton  manner  and  that  adhering  to  Eton.  If  a 
young  gentleman  from  Eton  has  a  degage  air,  it 
is  usually  because  it  expresses  a  degage  state  of  life. 
But  a  Pseton  young  gentleman  on  leaving  Pseton 
College  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  and  being  paid  a 
weekly  wage  by  the  directors  of  a  commercial  under- 
taking to  write  numerals  in  a  ledger,  can  scarcely  be 
said  to  be  either  spiritually  or  physically  disengaged. 

If  it  be  found,  as  it  usually  is,  that  his  Pseton 
training  has  rendered  a  youth  unable  to  take  his 
work  of  ledger-clerking  at  all  seriously,  then  his 
directors  have  a  reasonable  right  to  dismiss  him, 
which  they  usually  do.  But  a  farmer,  having 
deliberately  and  of  set  purpose  put  his  own  son  to 


THE  PSETONIAN  311 

Pseton,  has  no  right  to  complain,  though  he  usually 
does  so,  if  his  son  displays  aloofness  of  interest  when 
confronted  with  a  pig  pound  and  a  pitchfork. 

I  have  myself  had  recent  experience  of  the  results 
of  a  Pseton  College  training.  A  neighbour  of  mine, 
the  widow  of  an  engineer,  holds  frequent  consultation 
with  me  about  the  disappointing  experiences  of  her 
only  son,  who  is  a  typical  Pseton  product. 

By  dint  of  much  self-sacrifice  she  kept  this  boy  at 
Pseton  until  he  was  seventeen  years  of  age.  He 
achieved  considerable  eminence  at  that  school,  being 
a  member  of  the  First  Eleven  and  a  Prefect,  with  the 
captaincy  of  his  house  in  prospect.  He  left  Pseton 
with  few  doubts  about  himself  or  his  future,  and 
entered  the  employment  of  an  uncle  who  manu- 
factured cardboard.  The  uncle  paid  him  35s.  a 
week — a  "  hopeless  screw  "  as  the  young  gentleman 
himself  confessed — and  in  return  for  this  wage  he  was 
expected  to  keep  an  account  of  the  costs  pertaining 
to  the  gum  department. 

My  young  friend  explained  to  me  that  keeping  the 
accounts  presented  no  difficulty  to  him,  as  he  had 
always  been  "  good  at  maths,"  but  that  he  did  find 
it  difficult  to  keep  company  with  his  uncle's  other 
employees.  "  They  were  cads,"  he  said,  "  and 
I  told  them  they  were  cads."  His  uncle  dismissed 
him  after  some  six  or  eight  weeks,  and  he  came  home 
to  his  widowed  mother  full  of  amused  contempt  for 
all  the  arts  of  manufacture. 

After  a  period  of  prolonged  hesitation  in  his 
mother's  cottage,  where  his  Pseton  manner  was  much 
admired  by  the  visitors,  he  adopted  a  means  of 


312  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

livelihood  which  seems  to  be  taken  up  by  many 
Psetonians — that  of  going  back  to  school  again. 
Packing  up  his  presentation  cricket  bat  and  several 
pairs  of  white  trousers,  together  with  two  volumes 
of  letterpress,  entitled  respectively  "  The  Last  Days 
of  Pompeii "  and  "  The  Student's  Guide  to  English 
Literature,"  he  went  mysteriously  away  to  be  some- 
thing called  an  "  English  Master  "  in  a  small  school 
in  an  obscure  place.  About  a  month  later  he 
returned,  saying  shortly  that  the  proprietor  of  this 
small  school  was  a  fool  and  no  Sahib,  and  that  he 
expected  much  too  much  of  Pseton  cricket. 

There  then  took  place  this  war  they  talk  about. 
My  young  friend  was  for  a  short  while  very  happy, 
holding  an  officer's  commission  in  a  Kitchener 
regiment,  and  wearing  a  well-fitting  uniform,  riding 
a  motor-bicycle,  with  side-car,  and  eventually  getting, 
like  everybody  else,  engaged  to  be  married.  He 
described  her  to  me  as  the  best-looking  girl  in 
Broadstairs.  I  cannot  confirm  this  statement,  as 
I  never  saw  the  lady  and  never  shall,  the  engagement 
having  lapsed  when  my  young  friend  retired  from  the 
Army.  He  did  this  in  about  a  year's  time,  as  a  result 
of  wounds  and  gas  honourably  received  in  action. 
His  commanding  officer  stated  in  writing  that  he  was 
a  brave  and  efficient  soldier,  and  a  credit  to  his  old 
school,  though  to  what  extent  Pseton  College  is 
entitled  to  claim  special  credit  for  the  natural 
bravery  of  an  Englishman  it  is  not  for  me  to  judge. 

On  leaving  the  Army,  with  the  usual  gratuity 
and  a  small  pension,  my  young  friend  went  to 
Florida  for  the  dual  purpose  of  growing  fruit  and 


THE  PSETONIAN  313 

forgetting  Broadstairs.  He  has  just  returned  to 
England  destitute  of  money.  He  says  that  Florida 
was  all  right,  but  that  the  people  were  "  impossible," 
and  he  is  now  advertising  for  lucrative  employment 
suitable  to  the  requirements  of  "  Discharged  Officer, 
Public  School  Man." 

I  have  been  asked  to  assist  in  this  matter,  but  am 
at  a  loss  to  know  how  to  do  so.  I  could  think  of 
lots  of  jobs  which  I  think  would  be  suited  to  the 
natural  abilities  of  my  young  friend,  but  none  of 
them  would  conform  with  his  Pseton  opinions — those 
artificial  prejudices  and  unnatural  disabilities  which 
his  poor  little  mother  sacrificed  so  much  to  secure 
for  him. 

The  final  feeling  which  I  have  about  the  whole 
matter  is  this :  So  long  as  the  public  schools  were 
inaccessible  to  the  children  of  ordinary  people  they 
formed  a  subject  which  ordinary  people  might  be 
pardoned  for  neglecting.  But,  now  that,  with  the 
advent  of  Pseton  College,  the  sort  of  nonsense  for 
which  it  stands  is  placed  within  monetary  reach  of 
half  the  doting  parents  in  the  land,  it  is  time  that 
somebody  got  up  and  protested.  I  hereby  do  so. 


YOUNG  MR.  COBBY,  carrying  carelessly  a  hundred- 
weight or  so  of  matter  in  two  dusty  bags,  drew  up  at 
my  door  and  asked  for  water.  On  being  offered 
beer  he  signified  his  readiness  to  accept  that  sub- 
stitute, and  drank  two  glasses  of  it  very  quickly. 
He  then  sat  down  on  the  larger  and  dustier  of  his 
two  bags  and  entered  into  talk. 

He  told  me  that  his  bags  contained  respectively, 
lime  and  sand,  that  he  had  carried  them  from  the 
builder's  shop,  a  mile  distant  by  field-path,  and 
that  he  was  taking  them  home  (another  mile)  for  the 
purpose  of  making  some  cement  with  which  to 
repair  a  "  pig-pound,"  his  old  woman  being  of  the 
opinion  that  the  old  lady  (Anglice,  sow)  did  not  lie 
dry  enough  in  winter  time.  Mr.  Cobby  added  that 
that  day  was  his  birthday,  and  that  he  was  eighty- 
seven  years  of  age. 

"  We  don't  seem  to  be  gettin'  on  none  too  fast 
with  this  here  war/'  said  Mr.  Cobby. 

I  submitted  that  we  were  getting  on  at  least  as 
fast  as  anybody  else. 

"  Mebbe  we  are,"  assented  young  Mr.  Cobby. 
"  I  wont  say  naarthun  about  that.  But  that  don't 
say  as  we  couldn't  get  on  faster." 

314 


THE  DEGENERATE  315 

Being  an  optimist  by  instinct  and  a  debater  by 
calling,  I  disagreed  with  young  Mr.  Cobby.  I 
wanted  to  argue  with  Mr.  Cobby,  or,  rather  I 
wanted  Mr.  Cobby  to  argue  with  me.  I  therefore 
challenged  Mr.  Cobby  to  state  by  what,  if  any, 
means  the  process  of  securing  victory  could  be 
expedited. 

"  Call  in  some  more  blacks,"  said  Mr.  Cobby. 

This  answer  surprised  me.  It  was  not  the 
answer  which  I  had  expected  to  receive.  Most 
people  who  are  in  a  hurry  for  victory  want  to  coerce 
other  people,  or  to  tax  or  shoot  or  hang  them. 
Young  Mr.  Cobby  wanted  merely  to  "  call  in  "  more 
blacks. 

"  Why  blacks  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Men — good  men,"  answered  Mr.  Cobby. 

Now,  we  all  know  that  our  black  brother  is  none 
the  less  a  man  for  all  that,  and  ...  all  that. 
And  we  know  that  by  the  term  "  black  men,"  Mr. 
Cobby  referred  to  certain  military  representatives 
of  ancient  peoples  who  are  not  black,  and  do  not 
like  to  be  called  black.  But  we  waived  these  and 
other  considerations  which  rapidly  suggested  them- 
selves to  us,  and  we  said  : 

"  But  if  whites  are  handier,  why  call  in  blacks  ?  " 

"  Because  they  blacks  be  sich  oncommon  fellars," 
answered  Mr.  Cobby.  "  They  bean't  deggeneratted." 

"  And  is  anybody  else  deg-gen-e-ratted  ?  "  I 
asked,  adopting,  out  of  courtesy,  Mr.  Cobby's  own 
pronunciation  of  that  word. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  naarthun  about  nobody 
else,"  answered  Mr.  Cobby,  "  but  I  knows  as  us 
English  be  deggeneratted." 


316  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  I  reads  it  in  moi  noospaper,"  replied  Mr.  Cobby. 

"  What  do  you  read  in  your  newspaper  ?  " 

"  I  reads  what  the  Germans  says.  They  says 
our  day  have  passed.  They  say  'tis  only  the  black 
men,  the  Belgese,  the  French,  and  so  forth,  have 
kept  old  England  out  of  trouble  all  the  time.  They 
say  there  areun't  no  good  nor  courage  left  in  Eng- 
land. They  say  we  be  deggeneratted.  They  say  the 
men  are  lorst  their  strength  an'  power  an'  decency. 
They  say  we  got  no  pluck,  no  will,  no  dogged  left 
in  us.  And  I  believe  it,  too." 

"  Why  do  you  believe  it  ?  " 

"  Because  I  see  it  in  the  papers." 

"  But  what  you  see  in  the  papers  is  only  what  the 
Germans  say.  You  don't  believe  everything  that 
the  Germans  say,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Yus,  I  do,"  answered  young  Mr.  Cobby.  "  Yus 
I  do,  when  they  says  it  big  in  those  black  squares 
what  they  put  up  top  o'  the  tales  in  the  papers. 
And  when  you  reads  the  tales,  'tis  all  the  same. 
They  says  the  same.  The  English  writers,  they  tal 
you  the  same  as  what  the  German  writers  do : 
'  We  be  fair  rotten.  WTe  be  wore  out  with  laziness 
and  luxury  and  oidleness  and  games  and  football. 
We  don't  think  naarthun  about  nobody  no  more  : 
on'y  gooun'  to  the  Pictures,  and  so  forth.' ' 

"  What  paper  says  that  ?  " 

Young  Mr.  Cobby  mentioned  the  name  of  the 
paper  which  had  said  that. 

"  And  do  you  believe  it,  Mr.  Cobby  ?  " 

Certainly  Mr.  Cobby  believed  it.  He  had  seen  it 
in  the  paper. 


THE  DEGENERATE  317 

"  But  are  you  worn  out  with  idleness  and  games, 
Mr.  Cobby  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Cobby,  slowly,  with  a  blush, 
"  I  doos  ushershally  go  see  the  Junior  Cup  Final 
at  Hay  wards  Heath." 

"  But  are  you  degenerate,  slothful,  luxurious, 
soft — even  at  your  age,  even  at  eighty-seven  ?  " 

"  I  dunno,"  said  Mr.  Cobby.  "  They  says  so  in 
the  papers.  They  say  as  these  black  men  are  got  a 
better  nerve." 

"  But  if  a  German  came  to  your  cottage  and 
frightened  your  old  woman,  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  I'd  break  the  bagger's  neck,"  said  Mr.  Cobby. 

"  And  if  he  took  your  pig  ?  " 

"  Be  Christ,  I'd  shoot  him,"  said  Mr  Cobby. 
"  Gold  as  Oi  be,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Cobby,  "  if  any  fellar, 
German  or  otherwise,  was  to  come  to  moi  place  and 
stairrt  to  interfere  with  moi  oold  sow,  be  Christ,  sir,  Oi 
would  shove  a  charge  o'  lead  into  him,  and  moi  oold 
missus,  she  would  shove  another.  Moi  oold  missus, 
she  be  a  gentle  woman  and  she'll  put  up  wi'  pratty 
noigh  anythink ;  but  woe  betide  the  fellar,  German 
or  otherwise,  as  come  ankin'  about  wi'  our  oold 
sow !  " 

"  But  how  about  the  black  men  ?  " 

"Black  men?"  echoed  Mr.  Cobby.  "  Whoi, 
from  what  I  onnerstand  about  it,  sir,  the  black  men, 
they  be  for  us  :  not  agin  us.  But  I'll  bet  money  as 
moi  oold  woman  'd  lay  out  any  black  man  as  come 
messin'  round  our  sow.  She's  Sussex  born,  is  moi 
oold  woman." 

"  Then  what's  the  matter  with  Sussex-born  to 
fight  the  Germans  ?  "  I  demanded. 


318  A  MARKET  BUNDLE 

"  Well,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Cobby,  "  accordin"  t» 
moi  paper  they  aren't  got  no  stamina.  They  aren't 
got  no  will,  no  power.  They  be  deggeneratted. 
And  now  I  got  to  leave.  I  got  to  carry  these  here 
fixin's  home.  And  then  I  got  to  walk  to  Burgess 
Hill." 

"  That's  a  long  walk — for  eighty-seven,"  I  sug- 
gested. "  Burgess  Hill  must  be  at  least  four  miles 
from  where  you  live." 

"  I  often  walks  there,"  answered  The  Degene- 
rate. .  .  "I  got  moi  poor  oold  mother  livin' 
there." 


Bristol  :   Burleigh  Ltd.,  at  tin  Burltigh  Press. 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAC 


A     000046189     7 


